Welcome to the "Meta" Frame of Mind
I’m picking puzzle pieces to preach the perfect purpose of why I’m trying to whittle and woo
These wondrous words Into an artwork,
Alliteration and Adderall addle my attention, brambling and brawling and brushing away the dust
While doubting and doling out my thunderously thinking thoughts
For a specific structure that offers its stability through
Stressfully counting stressed and unstressed syllables in simple symbolism of why I’m here.
I can’t witness the fruition of these things so simply,
Inspiration strikes my synapses in my chemistry class
Words and ideas mapping intricate bricks and frankenstein skyscrapers at the
Worst moments possible.
Standard temperature and pressure and empirical formulas under the monotonous fluorescents
Stem the absolute flow of words and sentences and phrases that jumble and never quite / connect
In the head of a novelist that never publishes those pored over pages
Because the pursuit of these perfect and purposeful phrases pushes that purpose away
Despite the i n s e c u r i t i e s of these letters that can’t ink in the right way.
The inferiority complexes leak through the free verse,
Fragmented through the fear and desire to make something
Absolute that stands out from the rest
And despite the unstable lines and imperfect prose that torments my impedimented speech,
I write.
Releasing my mouth from my mentally articulated anaphylaxis
As I attempt to arrange these artificial accents in assonance and
Perfection.
Cycling through that desperate process of repetition that a scientist and a cartoon once called
Insanity,
I live to witness the words that my throat refuses to allow, hinting at the vocabulary’s watercolor
Splashing the edges of the plain - of the ache that already resonates within ourselves.
My heart pumps each syllable as my own blood, holding my identity
Taut at the edges and open in my lungs.
Persevering through my desperate and fleeting thoughts, here one second, and gone the next,
Proving these characters liars
While I whisper of ashen winters and forgotten summers
Because each concept, expression, and utterance plays a different song of
Temperance, absolution, and total threat
To my existence as a walking paradigm of the common teenage poet,
Mourning terrible sorrows and extensive linguistic remarks
As I list them off of the thesaurus page.
Our formulaic falsified feet forfeit fervent failure - we press on, determined to eliminate that fear
That the common writer has html coded into our comment boxes
Under the guise of “constructive criticism” while applying
Pressure to naïve minds in its own form of
Imaginative oppression, animosity at our surmountability of
Setting ourselves from the common word or slang
That screams the uncertainty toward judgment while we hide here -
Terrified being accused of being different.
A problem. A mistake.
These words don’t fit.
They devastate our meter as they splinter our hearts, leaving vacancy for the weakness that lurks
In the shadowy alleyways of that Motel 6 that we can barely afford,
Creaking the old swing set in back -
Condemned as nothing but a pile of rusted bones and razor blades taped under handles.
Simple nasty nonsense not meant for kids like us, there’s no place in our verse or vital variations
That we etch out to try to cure the trembling that plagues our hands
While the desire for warmth and home escapes with the butterflies that flee from our lungs.
Stuttering and stumbling over each stricken and spelled step, I’m struggling
To seek the simple sounds
That explain to you why I write; sending superficial secrets that seep through my skull -
Mania maniacally marring my mental matter and anxiety amplifying articulate absurdities
Redirected into my keyboard and paper and pen, this so-called pattern of
Insanity sets this mess of mine free,
Reminding me of my purpose as an amateur poet - freefalling into our sea of ink and paper,
Writing and telling these stories as an admission ticket to our freedom that the world
Admonishes.
Each verse, every broken stanza, and scattered line screeches in that desperate irony
Of the “crazies” who express their will to live
Entrancing those hounds away from our splintering doors
All to stop the vicious threats and boundless fury cracking at the hinges
In a home that can never be truly ours, as a call to hiraeth rushes in our ears like poisoned surf
With cracked coral and foggy waters from the oils in our paints and the tar in our tears.
The rhythm drops -
And I gather again the puzzle pieces in hopes that the center was not lost
As the intrusive insecurities interrogate the irregularities that I invoke,
Attempting to mix these jumbling jengas of jargon that fell apart in my arms again.
From these drug-doped dark corners of ours to climbing a way out of this -
Long and overcomplicated mess
As I try to find the proper way to express what you’re asked in question such as this one, when
All I can say is that I’m prepared to ponder, plan, and premiere
Maybe
To see where I can go with this.
I want to see these messed up rhymes of mine to say something my vocal chords can’t pitch -
The repetitive rhythm as I push this poem longer - eight hundred something words -
But these numbers can’t convey
Who I am, what I’ve seen, and where this world’s going to take me
But you can guarantee
That after this series of conflicted columns
I'm going to write another
And another.
Because my muddled little brain wanted to make something complicated
Even if it only makes sense to me, myself, and I.
Even if it's unbalanced, unnatural, or awkward -
It's something that exists.
And that makes it beautiful.
Because that's what everyone needs to see in themselves.
Because out of this stricken little world of ours -
We made it.
And it's time that all of us realize that we're pretty damn beautiful.
And maybe this is a pretty good way to do it.