My Life

The world is growing around me. I see a seed sprouting through the soil, I watch as it rises through the air, stretching with its branches and reaching up to the heaven so many speak of with such acclaim and fervor. “This world is a heaven.”

Ah! The beauty of living in slow motion. I stand in the same place for minutes, but they turn into hours, hours to days, days to months… Before I know it, I have grown old, too old to move. My roots have plunged themselves deep into the dirt, they sift through it to find the nutrients my body so desperately needs. I look toward my chin and watch a beard fall from my face like a waterfall. I am stationary, implanted, rooted, stuck… But I do not mind.

The people walk by too quickly to see me, always living life at such a rapid pace that nothing around them matters. They are all lost in the dreams, or often nightmares, of their minds. They continually detach themselves from the world, using iPods and cell phones to escape. They are alienated, yet free to walk around. Here I am, stuck to the ground, but I do not wish to escape.

I’ve watched the birth of the world, trees, plants, animals… I have seen the people passing me by. I have watched them drift in the wind like a feather fluttering in a soft, cool breeze. I’ve seen their joy, their smiles, their pain and their tears. I have felt their terror and despair. I was here for it all.

I felt it, too. Not my own, but theirs, I felt through them- The emotional roller-coaster called life was my own, but I was merely a passenger traveling through the tracks of their lives. I have lived through them. And I, I am no different from you any longer. I am you, I am present inside of you, stationary, stable, omniscient, my hair and beard flowing to the ground, forever destined to be with you. You may not see me, but I am there- I am with you. I have given up my life to live through you, an invisible Jesus who will never have a book written about him. I watch the figures rapidly passing me by, and I stretch my branches to the sky, sighing, and closing my eyes to sleep… Ah… To sleep.

I glance around my room, and I say to myself, “how is one expected to compose flawless verse, while surrounded by futile routine?”

A thought comes to my mind, and why does it matter? People don’t understand flawless verse, anyways. As I watch that thought appearing as my fingertips bounce off the keys of my laptop, I begin to truly realize the validity of it. What makes a poem worth publishing? I can hear people from my writing class, rage on their faces and ignorance in their hearts, “it’s about how much someone loves what they are doing! It is art, and all art can be appreciated and should be published!” They are wrong. I hear many of my readers, “it is about which poem brings about the most emotional stimulation.” Again, incorrect.

What makes a poem published is the difference between appearance versus reality. It is the underlying meanings which maybe 2% of the population can understand. It is realizing that when a poet uses masculine rhymes throughout the course of their poem, and notes that one word which directly connects to the meaning of the poem is a feminine rhyme,and realizing the powerful impact that has on the meaning. It is the realization that it is ironic, because the one word which should be stressed is not, and that there are several meanings which can be drawn from that. It is understanding that a poem is composed of iambic tetrameter, and the switch in the third stanza to pentameter is meant to change the flow of the poem and possibly separate the two ideas. It is the difference between what can be read on the surface, and what lies beneath. And the ignorant laugh at this, thinking that it’s simply people looking too deeply into the meaning… But they are wrong.

It reminds me of people. A poem is like a person, no matter what appearance they put off, character is judged by what is unseen rather than seen.

I could post a total and complete masterpiece (not to say I have the ability), and it wouldn’t matter. The majority of people would not be able to tell the difference.

The world revolves on its axis,

The economy relies on taxes,

And I revolve around you.

Global warming murders the trees,

While people pray on calloused knees,

But I remain standing for you.

The world is destroyed by ignorance and lies,

The people are dying, I hear their cries,

But I remain silent, for you.

I’m forced into silence by you.

I don’t know what’s happening to me lately.

I glance toward the sleeping city of San Francisco. It’s 615am, morning for some, still night for most. The world is surrounded by darkness. There is no moon, no sun, no stars, and no light. People are lying in their cozy beds, holding the person they love between their tightly wrapped arms, and are off in some parallel universe created in the depths of their imaginations. Their minds are bustling, their hearts are beating, their noses are inhaling the sweet aroma of love drifting off the skin of the person lying with them, and it is a beautiful thing. Hours ago I would have been bewildered as to how they can find warmth, comfort, and love in such a cold, cruel world, but not now.

I stand atop a building, overlooking the city from above. I am an overseer. I am a king atop my concrete throne.

There was no sleep for me tonight. There were no dreams of distant lands, no escape from this bitter reality, no scent of love to creep through my nostrils, no bliss to ignite the furnace inside my heart. Tonight was a lonely night, a cold night, a joyless night. Instead of living in the utopia of my imagination, I was slapped by the unforgiving hand of reality. But still, here I stand.

The sun begins to cast a faint light over the hillside; this is the awkward stage where uncertainty overwhelms the world. It is not quite night, but not quite day. It is not quite dark, but not quite light. It is the moment of in-between. The moment where all all of the world is unclear as to what or who they are. But the sun still rises, the people still sleep, and dream… and love.

I stand atop my concrete throne, and raise my arms in triumph; for even when all is dark, the sun is sure to rise again.

One step follows the next and is followed by the last, but where are they going? The path in front of me is so broken and battered that it can no longer be seen. For the first time in my life, there is no path to follow, only a trail to create. The scenery is shrouded in a deceiving cloud of manufactured fog, but who created it? I tread along, slowly walking, bare feet being cut by the brush and broken sticks cast along the earth, I feel the blood trickling down my naked skin, and I feel blind. How can I create a trail when I have no idea where I am going?And what if some poor fool comes meandering along this trail only to find himself lying next to my dead, rotting, carcass as the flies eat away at my raw, bloody flesh-wounds. He asks himself, “what a fool I must have followed, and what a fool am I for following!” And alas, the leader leads to death.

I am not asking for a path, for I understand that it is my time to create, but why must the journey be tainted by a veil of manufactured falsehoods? Why can I not understand where, or why, or who this deception is coming from?

No answers drift into my field of perception, so I creep along, each step threatening to be my last and each moment stripping me of another hope I so desperately desire. My body is weak, as is my mind; how much longer can a broken heart convince a dead body to move?