Where the Red Ferns Do Not Grow

Fri, 02/28/2014 - 20:45 -- sussy


I am not a transcendentalist 
No matter how hard I try to appreciate 
The golden shifts of the autumn leaves
Or the aggression of tides that scream into my ear drums 
In shapes of my deceased grandfather’s voice 

But I find trails of solemnity in my room
How terribly I had placed a useless lamp 
In pitiful attempts to shed a bit of light inside

Or the decorations I plastered on
Above the head of my bed when 


I somehow decided 
I wished to be more mediocre and less abnormal 

When attention was the oxygen I had breathed


But most importantly 
Me and my forbidden presence 
And its witness to my faint happiness 


Or surprisingly how many times I am able 
To yell “fuck” in a short five minutes 
Which I still believe 
Is a gifted talent

And even secluded from Mother Nature, herself


A temple of my own ruins

Guide that inspired this poem: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741