I'm perfectly content with poetry.
I'm hardly perfectly content with anything else.
I itch all over, figuratively.
I feel so needy, though I am on my own.
I want heroes and home, things I never let myself be fooled by before.
But that was because I had them then.
I would be an alcoholic if I were to stay.
I know that's odd and presumptuous to claim, but I know I would be.
Many here are anyways.
I would become a pretty little bouquet of things I would never want to be.
That is if I were to stay, but I'm not staying.
I'm not staying.
I'm not staying.
I want to be naked and drunk and madly in love.
I want to be religious and settle-down-ish.
And most of all-
I want to sing!
I want to sing!
I want to sing!
And though these wants and needs and oddities are as incoherent as everything that enters and exits my brain here.
I know I'm coming home.
Mama says all will fall into place then, but I won't hold my breath.
Crisises, existential, midlife, or otherwise, aren't easily shaken off.
I don't mind being seen as pathetic anymore, since I'm well aware that I am.
I like saying, for all my faults, at least I'm open, and this place is trying to make me revert.
I'm becoming scared and passive again.
I'm becoming bitter and silent again.
I'm re-wearing the skin I thought I shed years ago.
And I do not like it one bit.
I would rather be skin-less than the thing I'm becoming again.
Though I'm ever-unsure, I'll go back and figure out the few things I'll know.
I'm seeking comfort in my roots, perhaps too much, even.
I know that much.
"I had a dream my life would be so different from this Hell I'm living-"
Pure pathetic nostalgia.
But I know I need it.
This isn't even what I'm supposed to be doing.
But I know when I'm dead and buried-
Or scattered or donated or whatever my form will be-
The sole remains of soul will be glad that I procrastinated my finals to write poetry.
Because poetry is the only thing in this whole wide world I'm perfectly content with.
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