I'll break free.
No more good ole' Jersey restraint
Keeping me, no more artificial home,
No more blasting German music at
Top volume to create a moment of
Silence to be alone and undisturbed.
Well, disturbed, but alone. And
Disturbed because of it.

When I reach 18, I won't be sneaking
TV dinners into my bedroom anymore;
I won't be surrounded by my furnishings
and Power Cords that mold my bedroom
into a Home within my superficial home,
the microcosm where I spend my numbered days.

When I reach 18, I'll look back and wonder
Where our crazy teenaged years went. I always
Looked ahead in wonder as a child, hearing
How great they'd be, hearing how these years
Would be the best of my life. Could anyone
Have predicted I'd choose the path of a
Lonely poet, writing prose in public places,
Hating depression and suicide and being
Depressed because of it? Could anyone predict
That the topic of these poems would be me,
And my sheltered life?

I think back on my childhood. I think back,
and wonder how it felt to know my family
was here, sitting on my living room couches,
watching little me open presents on a holiday
morning. I wonder how it felt to be safe
here, to sit at the dining room table eating
cereal with cold white milk, to let people
into my home. Now no one comes here anymore.

And I wonder, will this lonely poet's life
Follow me into the future? I may forever
Resort to paper and pen to confess my
Feelings for you, ever wondering if what I
Write is even poetry, or if it's just a
Mad-woman's confessions bleeding on my page.

08/18/2005

Author's Note: I really don't know if this is even poetry anymore. It doesn't seem very poetic, just sort of ranting, but I figured I'd post it...

Posted on 08/18/2005
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