hey c: these are two (prose) poems I recently finished. Actually I don’t know whether or not I should edit these further; idk if it’s the best it could be, now c: thx** for checking this out.
Tragedy
I wish I could be rain that pours on a city. Each drop would contribute to the healing of its inhabitants. Seeing me outside of windows, they’d understand certain truths and move past certain pains. I’d be the force that has helped people for millennia – helped them transcend suffering. No more hoping for peace – I’d be peace, itself. The sight of my translucent streaks would imprint onto people’s minds. I’d also stream down streets and boulevards, and off of buildings and houses. I’d heal a whole city. Right now, I’m not the rain; my life has been comprised of fear, hollowness, confusion, and ruin. That has led me to be like dry soil. If someone came to me who was suffering, and needed relief – perhaps a way to contextualize, put in perspective, dark realities, hellish memories – I’d try to convey to him some type of sympathy. In reality, I’d be too traumatized by my own bruises to give him any kind of real comfort or help. I’d be so stifled that I wouldn’t even be able to articulate to him my desire to be rain. To be a manifestation of peace, itself, and to heal people like him – people who are hurting. He might consider me for a while – my silence, my unfocused eyes – and simply walk away, thinking I don’t care.
Hurting
I hope life goes well, for me. I’m approaching 27, so I suppose it’s appropriate to hope for a good life, ahead. 27 might be too early or too late to hope for that – but it’s all perspective. I’ve heard a sociologist say that life is not usually lived with full consciousness, growing up. You’re so busy learning things for the first time and going through various passages of early life, that you’re not seeing life with full clarity, or insight. When you reach somewhere around middle age, you start seeing certain, perhaps personal, truths, and gain some kind of awareness. Somewhere between middle age and death, or perhaps late middle age and death, is often a time of developing some sort of all-encompassing opinion about life, or one’s own life; saddened or hopeful, or something along those lines. Or something more complex. Or any other final analysis. I see the truth in all of that, though I know that some people might sense themselves outside of that paradigm. Regardless of how anyone relates to life, and at what time, I think the only critical insight that is ever shared among everyone is that hurting a person in any way, great or small, is like the ocean turning into poison, or into blood, or into acid. That hurting someone is as horrific as the sun bursting and letting pieces of blaze fall down. That love and compassion – not only deterring harm – are the only human possibilities. That’s the only vital or crucial understanding that is common among everyone. Aside from that, there will be other, less-important truths that people will come to.
ty* for reading 🦋🖤😬
– 11:14 pm, Monday, August 24, ‘20.
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