Who the fuck am I?

I’m a person of peace with a warring soul. I’m both Aaron and Lee, stuck in that hole. I’m dancing, with no rhythm, to the rebel songs. I’m adopting a tongue to which I can’t belong. I’m hoping to open eyes by writing about grey with black and white. I’m shielding my eyes against the light.

But who the fuck am I?

I want out. I need to go. I’ve given up. I see the salt water shrinking the boards and I’m thinking that I want to chance the swim. I’m hoping more will come. I’m hoping that everyone at the table will all at once drop their poker face. Look each other in the eyes. Smile. Quietly fold their hands with out showing what they had. Stand up.
Push their chairs in. And leave the pot on the table as they exit the room.

But who the fuck am I?

I want the history lesson to stop. I want the stories to begin. I want people to know that God has everything to do with love and nothing to do with sin. I want to be pristine white with a dirty soul. I want to be one half of a much greater whole. I want the whole world to see those eyes that make me weak. I want everyone to see the lips that forbid my tongue to speak.

But who the fuck am I?

I want change. I want revolution with out destruction. I want people to make a choice about what they will become and become it. I want numbers to have no value and happiness to be socialized instead of privatized. I want no division anymore. I want my God to be less small. I want to be less of an asshole. I want to be horrible at lying and even less proficient at telling the truth. I want things to be different, or new, or changed, or any two of the three.

But who the fuck am I?

I’m tired of seeing the world as it is. I’m tired of the mess. I’m tired of CNN being more like show biz. I want Jeb to confess. I want the stars and stripes lashed across backs, that spur on youths to these preemptive attacks to see the truth about the chief. I want the entire forest to turn over a new leaf. I want gutters that run with blood to be washed clean with tears. I want to replace the world’s dreams with hope and blot out all the fears. I am a fool with lofty ideals about what could be someday. I’m walking through the forest, scraped, snagged, exhausted, and weak, but happy to be making my own way.

But who the fuck am I?

I’m hoping to be just like you. I’m hoping that you listen and feel the same way too. I’m hoping for a night of sleep where a hundred revolutionaries dream of utopia and a miraculous change to begin. I’m whacked out of my head. I believe with all my soul that poetry can change the world. I am delusional. I’m honest. I’m pleading. I’m on my knees.

But who the fuck am I?

If tomorrow, I never wrote again because the bullshit that inspires me by scaring the hell out of me was gone? I’d take it. So let’s take it. It was ours first. It belongs to the artists. The dreamers. The poets and thinkers. So let’s take it back. Let’s take it back. The future is tied up in the arms of everyone who is asking questions. Refusing to swallow what they are told and spitting it back in to the faces of the feeding hand that bites us. The future is tied up in the certainty of our insecurity. We can do this, as surely as this place makes us insecure. We can do this, and leave them asking….

Who the fuck were they?
  ¶ 3:51 PM 0 comments