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Poetry > Do not drag feet and go burdened, forth

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message 1: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
(So I think this is called a prose poem. Not sure. BUT... it is kind of a poem and kind of not one. Whoops.)

I remember quite clearly one afternoon when the sun felt like July and the air sounded crisp as the crickets do on the first day of summer, legs against legs,
buzzing the sound in the sky at night among the dancing stars. This was daytime, with the sense of impending darkness, of a sun setting, even as that light washed gold and pure across the road and through the car and lit everything to honey, so we were swimming in a sea of sweet, tongues thick, talking of how every man has a face, a face that is pocked with lifelong scars and noses gone crooked from love-fights or bar-fights or accidents and beneath that face is another face, much more tender, with the scars and pocks removed and beneath that face there is another face, a child's face, and beneath that is a face that no one sees, an inner face, the true face, masks begone.


We then talked of how those faces can be removed, as masks are removed, so that layer by layer they disappear and the true face is revealed; in retrospect, that was a lie, a filthy lie, and the thought sickens me as surely as the dead must be sickened by their legacies left to rot, for it to be removed one must have a key, one must recognize that they have a face that is not their true face.

Which is beyond our capabilities:

for it requires both self-realization and extensive, consuming trust of another soul. Our age cannot maintain such trust; it is the newness, the foreigner, the desensitization of an entire population that is fed the filth that is society to digest and divulge, a failure of divergence, the generation of the lost springing up as grass springs, roots interconnected and entangled, believing in our own brokenness.

An advanced mind can self-analyze, can assess, but the eye cannot knit the bridge between analytical thought and physical perceptions, thus I see this face in the mirror, this face that is so much older in this last year or two, and I see this face that is strong and proud and I realize that is, perhaps, the truest face, until doubt cripples the concept and I am left staring at a stranger.

Have those lips kissed those boys I remember? Have those lips said those words I regret so profoundly? Have those eyes seen blood and bruises, have those eyes shed tears fresh as the fountain of youth?

This says nothing for the thoughts beneath that, for the things that go unsaid and the tears that go un-shed. I realized today that we are all radicals of religion, of faiths that go voiceless, we are the prodigal sons, we are the wayward and desolate youths of the nation, searching for who we are with voracious, merciless, savage, thoughtless hands--

and so there is the dance, the run, the fight, the laugh, the tears, there are smiles that we do not mean and the words that are malicious, there are the Facebook posts and the twitter accounts and the educations we forgo in favor of sweaty rancor. We sell our souls to things we do not understand and we lie to each other and to ourselves, hiding beneath faces we do not recognize to achieve ends that we do not want to support causes that do not matter.

We are seven billion flies buzzing on the surface of this earth, fluttering against windowsills, staring at dreams on the other side of the smudged glass--

and it is all so beautifully tragically chaotically human.

I can love and I can hate nothing enough;
I want to fight and create peace and win and lose and live and die and, quite simply, be without lying, without dishonesty to myself or to others. I want to be recognized as a flame, as a comet, as the ethereal and ephemeral and glorious ghost that reveals, finally, how to shed the mask.

Do nothing if you do not mean it; do not drag feet and go burdened into heaven or hell, do not regret.

The moment there is nothing left there is always something, the memory of a smile or of a hand upon a shoulder, of a boy praying resolutely over his food day and after day in a mess hall, surrounded by the selfish and insensitive peers that constantly heckle and snarl their mockery, there are those moments of loud unity in which humans are beautiful again, hands joined, hair let down in long and flowing and glorious manes, there are moments when the sky opens and we fall deep, deep into the embrace and the stars grin kindly down at everyone and there are flowers given to young, distrustful girls and compliments without cost, and a mother's warm embrace, the warm love of a dog at night, chin against knee, eyes warm and brown and big, and there are those seconds in which dreams are fulfilled and masks are broken, briefly, to allow our lovely light to shine through as bright and gold as the sun in July, in August, in October, in December--

it is easy to forget that there is light in every month.



message 2: by Isaac (new)

Isaac | 8014 comments Once again: are you sure you're seventeen? This was profound.


message 3: by Allison (new)

Allison | 679 comments What Emily said.

I'm sorry, but from your writing, you sound like an extremely wise 47 year old psychologist that is all knowing.


message 4: by Kriss (new)

Kriss (krisslee) | 5015 comments Mod
LOL I am hardly all knowing xD just thoughtful!


message 5: by Allison (new)

Allison | 679 comments :)


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