Friday, May 18, 2012

"I make new things"

I remember when I was in prison.
It was dark there, and I hated it.
I got through each day
by laying on the floor and weeping, wishing to die.
(if this is "life," shudder.
Beat your head against the wall until your skull cracks
and only gibberish and blood poor out of your mouth.)
I remember when I was in prison, but don't remind me;
what good is being let out of prison if
everytime the warden rattles his keys,
you run straight back to the old cell
and voluntarily
shut the door? 
what good is a freedom haunted by the memory
of captivity?
what good is a consciousness of anything
 before this moment,
of focusing not
on what lies before you, a road in front of your feet, a future?
How can I stay on this path if my eyes
are trained behind and beneath me?
how can I not help but veer off into the bushes then wonder
at the scrapes on my arms, the bleeding knees?
Look forward, train your eyes ahead of you.
It will feel natural only after
you have gotten into the habit. 
until then, force yourself. 
("Home" is just on the other side of this bramble.)


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