journal

The word I distrust most is “I”—
I am not what I thought I was;
I have not become what I dreamed;
I am the unreliable
narrator in this story of self—
the path is either strewn with leaves,
or there is no path there at all.

I want—do I really?
I need—why? tell me why?
a constant internal haggle,
a marriage with myself
based on unfulfilled promises
and unfulfilling love—
my voice grates against my ears,
and so I whisper,
except when I don’t.

I thought I was moral,
but I have done questionable things.
I thought I was a lover,
but I left those who loved me.
I thought I was many things
I have turned out not to be.

If my personality were deconstructed
in the way these words could be—
“I” encompasses too much
for a one-letter word—
sparks of passion
wrestling with an ambition
that is uncomfortable with itself—
a boy tyrant shouting,
“This is the way the world should be”,
at the old man who whispers,
“This is the way the world is”—
a writer
who does and doesn’t know
what I am
(or is),
or could be.

The garden party
the sweet fragrance of wild mint
unfinished poems.