i am no more
but also no less
i can take a back seat
and i can drive myself
a retreat is not a retreat
when the fortress is in me
i can love who i am
when i am shy, when i am different
when i know i don’t fit in
when i cannot do what you tell me to
no one must to make space for me
because i can
stupid birds
i can’t wait for you to die
GOD compared me to you
and some flowers, i think daffodils
i can’t wait for your nest to loose
and wind to break your branch
i can’t wait for you to die
they use you as the reason
i am not allowed to think i suffer
the reason i am not allowed to worry
i can’t wait for you to die
stupid birds
i heard some mothers eat their young
maybe that is what GOD meant
PS: three hundred dollars says i’m right
i cannot wish i wasn’t
enough
i could wish i was and wish i was and wish i was enough and enough and enough
i could wish i knew and wish to be different and still never be
i could speak and speak at 9am but still again i will have to speak at 9:15
i will have to speak and speak and bother everybody
i will have to hear them try to help while resounding in agreement that i am the odd one out
that what i have is my problem and i will have to let them know over and over until i die
i hate that i look the same as them
i hate that i look so close enough that they can forget
maybe if my head was twice the size
or my body drifted off to one side
if my legs were both twisted in
if my back was deeply bent
maybe if i did not blend in they would not forget and forget and forget
maybe i don’t want them to ask me
maybe i do
maybe i just want them to know already
or know that they care enough to know
i am the loud singer man
and i don’t want to have to be
everybody’s chance to practice self reflection
i do not what to be that kind of gift
(gifts with clauses and conditions to receive)
i am the loud singer man and even if you say I’m not
that doesn’t make a difference
because someone is
i was different today,
and yesterday,
and before that,
forever back.
tomorrow, i think,
i’ll be the same.
i’ll wear pink when they wear pink,
i will wink when they wink,
and scream when they scream.
tomorrow they won’t even notice.
i won’t be different anymore;
i won’t even be me.
tomorrow, i think,
i’ll be free.
tomorrow, i won’t even have to stand up for myself anymore.
i’ll be what they want me to be.
i’ll sit in the seat,
i’ll speak when they speak,
and scream when they scream.
tomorrow they’ll see,
they’ll see,
i don’t even have to be me.
i can be them,
and even float into my grave.
i can even float into my grave like this,
like them.
whatever we want to be gets funneled through
shelves,
shoved into
bookcases for books,
hardware for wood,
lumber and wool.
whatever we want to be gets a laugh,
a cackle in the back,
a cough from the furthest pew,
a sleepy “z” from the child in their mother’s lap.
whatever we want to be
will have to be us,
and be what it will never be for anyone else.
you push uphill
and pull down the shelves.
you rip every stitch and wake up everyone.
write, for yourself,
the book and the shelf and the wool and the wood,
the comedy and cathedral and sleepy congregants.
write the way the mother loves the child,
and write the way you notice
nobody noticing you,
except
that one person, the only one we even matter to,
you.
talk,
speak,
see how they do.
let every noise
let every noise loose,
let every voice
let every voice loose,
and speak,
see how they do.
this is okay with everyone but you,
and you always want to be the exception,
don’t you?
you have to be.
speak.
it’s just that
i had a drunk
as a friend
from the time my life began
to the time he ended his
and then
i had another drunk
from then
to the time i discovered it
on the call
and driving her to the hospital
this poem will make space for the pain i’m in
without it controlling me
and you must keep space to have a drink
without being controlled by it or the pain in me
pairs of Cinnamon Teal
look the same until god wants something
and so I glow without permission
until god tells me to stop
Cinnamon Teal are quiet
I think I should be
three birds and rain
i can’t see the sun
two ferns and every politician
soak
the musicality of love
we want our ideas
don’t wait
don’t wait
don’t think we’re not the same
feudal italy
spanish inquiries
the worst thing you can believe
is that we’re not the same
it didn’t rain
bushes and birds
and trees, they had trees
the worst thing we ever invented
was the illusion of control
when a single Harper Adams dies
the earth of seeds & petals cry
a low and quiet cry
:: cup your hands over your ears
to hear ::
the lull of mindfulness we want to feel
in child’s pose
to drink the drink of happiness
from the yellow of the rose
whose name we say is meaningless
unto the content of its soul
but all we want is happiness
& all we do
is name
and name and name
even the naming of the rose
nathanael.ink 