Tag Archives: fitting in

Dialogue of the Birthday Blues

What’s the matter, you ask, and why
With so much to love, do you want to cry?
As you’re still young with time to dream,
Life gives more to you than you need.

***

I will tell you what, I say,
Thirty-two’s two days away.
Two years more than three times ten,
Yikes, I’m older once again!

I worry yet that naught I’ve grown:
I have no family of my own,
I’m breaking every social rule,
And darn it all, I’m still in school!

So here I sit, bemoan my fate,
So many milestones, come too late
I should have been done years ago,
Instead I’m lost and rather slow.

I don’t know what I want to do
Once formal learning’s finally through,
Uncertainty cuts like a knife,
I’m not sure what to make of life.

***

Oh no, you say, and have no fear,
You needn’t agree with all you hear,
False expectations of a crowd
Who compare and judge … and talk too loud.

Why believe the things they say?
There’s nothing wrong with you, anyway.
Why hurry to fulfill a role
That’s not imprinted on your soul?

***

To heed such wise advice, I should,
If only I could claim some good.
Has come from all those years unfurled,
But I’ve changed nothing in this world.

Try to understand my gloom.
I rarely venture from my room,
And when I do, it’s such a mess,
A misadventure full of stress.

The trouble still remains for me,
That I take too long since I can’t see.
I’ve no accomplishment at which to point
My life appears so out of joint.

Or so say my friends who can’t disguise,
The fear in pity in their eyes.
How did I go oh so astray,
How could I have turned out this way?

They remind me I’m a Stanford grad,
And should not have it half this bad.
“Where’s the house, the job, the date?”
Protest my friends? “You’ll be too late!”

***

I’d question friendship of that kind,
I’d tell them so if I’d half the mind
But they’re not the ones who trouble me:
I care too much for you, you see?

Why listen to such knotted lies
They’ll seal your place with gilded ties
Just leave those should haves on the shelf
You are the author of yourself.

Too many values and ways to be,
Don’t foster authenticity.
So many making this mistake,
Turn from the chance to live awake.

Good enough, it can’t be bought,
Or given out as you’ve been taught.
Living well takes skill and art,
It’s not in tick marks on a chart.

Your worth is with you when you’re born,
So there is nothing here to mourn.
You are always where you need to be,
And share your light so brilliantly.

Look At This _ Learning In A Sighted World

This is a rock shattering against
A child’s buildings. They crumble and,
Tired of guessing, she wanders
Alone at night, scared to find a home.

This was once a stone in my shoe.
Far from stopping to shake it out,
I borrowed someone else’s feet
To ease the pain of rock climbing.

You stand in front of crowded rooms,
Full of those longing to learn this
And that. But to my estranged ears,
This and That are four letter words.

In the back row, this tells me
With that snaky S wrapped around
Its tongue, that there’s no way
I’ll ever know what this is.

This tags along like
Parentheses that print
Quantized steps on the sundry
Surface of a blackboard.

This is a door that’s always locked.
Those with access to their keys slip
Through it into the secret room.
I was given this safety pin.

This stamps my loved ones with symbols
Forcing them to march out of their
Homes without a word,
By order of the new regime.

Those who spoke out still remember
This war. How silence, drawn at attention,
Won landscapes scared to give their name.
This is the struggle of silences.

What visions die this way? Empty
Shells of this fill the air as you
Point out how beautiful we are—
I run. Fields, high volts, tears forced in.

This leaves me craving
Objects. I loved
To lie out on their properties
Soaking up the sun.

I remember this place back when
I knew few words. I’d reach out to
Touch shapes, tracing their forms. I built
My surface structure out of them.

Like an orphan, I used to try
To describe this, but I had no
Language for my origins. Through
Songs sung silently, I am disowned.

This is the sound of an age
That’s dying. Generations speak
Of us in past tense. Why this?
I just wanted to make this mine.

This would be beautiful
If it ever gave birth
To a child. We’d be the only
Songs in chromatic harmony.