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Tuesday, May 18

I think I like it. But rhyming comes off as slightly cheesy sometimes.

Wrote my first poem in a long time for a teaching course I am taking this summer. It was supposed to be about where we're from.


I am from my mother’s flesh.
Nine months spent in a dark and ethereal nest,
Encased in calmness, a peaceful start.
Listening to nothing but the beat, beat,
the steady beating of her large and generous heart.

I am from spring days spent listening to the rain,
Eyes closed, hands on the windowpane,
My heart filling with the promise of days growing long,
As my room filled with the tap, tap
The rhythmic tapping of the rain’s constant song.

I am from a family of movers,
A group of restless souls on the run.
I was born under a burning Indian sun,
But took my first steps in the shadows of Chicago’s high-rises,
Dropped my baby teeth in the Midwest suburbia that everyone despises,
For it’s lack of imagination, of adventure, of surprises.
I grew up on the blue shore of America’s high-five,
Lived in a Californian wasteland without actually being alive.
And surrounded by my family, I learned what it meant to be alone,
Falling asleep to the roll, roll
The rolling of the car’s wheels as we searched for a new place to call home.

Guess you could say I am not from any particular place,
Haven’t accomplished much, don’t have a well-known name or face.
But I am ambitious and a dreamer, a generous creator;
I’m slow to trust and I am weary, but I am not a hater.

I am making art and I am learning,
I have come so far and I’m still growing,
So enough about where I’m from;
Let’s talk about where I’m going.

2 comments:

Allye said...

It's great. You're great.

I like repetitive sounds and I love that you lived without being alive, that you were surrounded and alone. (Well, not that you did, but that you wrote those words.)

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