Thursday, November 27, 2014

Comepletely

I thought wouldn't it be wonderful to write a nice Thanksgiving themed poem?
A poem my grandmother would like.
But then my mind started thinking of a veritable cornucopia of clich├ęs.
And it went wrong even before I sat down to write.

I have so many things on my mind today.
The sky still looks like dawn.
An icy light behind the clouds.
And I'm surprised by how small adjustments can turn everything around.

And then something else happens and I'm back in a position I don't want to be in.
So then I do something else to try to regain the joyful momentum I had going before.
And maybe I realize I don't want to be where I was before, because I wasn't going where I thought I was.
And even though I make declarations to myself to write more poems that make sense to people, I still don't.

I really do have aspirations to craft poems with touching, sentimental imagery.
Actually sometimes I set out to do that and I think I know who will like it, and they usually do.
The thing is that it's a departure from my infuriatingly incomprehensible excessively confessional style.
Try to say that more than once, or read it more than once for that matter.

If I was crafting a holiday piece for you I would include things that people can relate to.
Mentions of the traditional "bird" and aromatics.
Some kind of commentary on the joyousness of family, while completely leaving out the dysfunctional elements as if they never existed.
Basically a mostly fake, completely skewed version.

Some people might like it, because it supports the myth they're working really hard to keep alive.
Other people could find themselves feeling much worse, because in truth the experience is very different for them.
Can you see the position I'm in?
No matter what there will always be someone who would like what I write to be a little bit different (or completely different).

And somehow my poem about Thanksgiving is actually more about writing.
And I can honestly say I am grateful for it.
I can feel it when a poem is "coming on."
It rushes through me and wants to be known.

I keep misspelling "completely."
I want to say comepletely.
Come pletely.
Come with all of yourself.

But before you come over consider the consequences.
I might not be who you want me to be.
And you might not look good.
So staying apart > infinitely better.

You know, I feel like it might be confusing sometimes to try and figure out what I'm talking about.
Or rather who I'm talking about.
If you read my work you may wonder who "you" is.
And perhaps you get the idea it changes.

Or maybe you don't wonder at all.
Maybe you don't care.
I was going to reveal myself, but I flinched.
Okay, I wanted to say I don't know who I'm writing about.

How embarrassing I wanted to lie to you.
I do have different people in mind when I write "you."
But I don't think they have any idea what's going on most of the time when they read my rants.
By exposing myself I am intentionally trying to burn a bridge behind me.

Another thing I've noticed.
People don't like it when I write about them reading what I've written.
I think this is because it makes them feel exposed.
If I just don't mention it they feel like they have some kind of window into my inner life.

Which honestly is creepy, because it makes me think of the Peter Gabriel song "Every Breath You Take."
You may be watching me, but I'm also watching you.
It's a two way street.
And I have my own way of watching, which you may not be able to emulate.

Sounds kind of threatening, which I also do not think is popular.
So by my own admittance I have written something that isn't compelling and could potentially be designed to actually turn you off.
Strange.
Well, I think my job is done here.

I won't tell you how to feel or what to do on Thanksgiving.
I don't think we need people to tell us how to feel.
I feel like God gives me exactly what I need all the time, whether I know it or not.
But it is not always easy and mostly it actually isn't that hard.

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