Poetry

Root Ball

I’m standing on a platform

that I used to think was my world.

Every so often, I would see glimmers off in the distance and wonder

what they were.

Now those glimmers have extended roots

to latch onto my platform, so that it is not a platform anymore

but part of a greater whole that I never knew existed.

I can now walk to them

any time I wish

and sink into their greeting, unafraid

of judgement, knowing above all that I’m accepted

and always will be.

Poetry

Hubbub

Hubbub.

Who’s listening?

 

Chatter, natter, prattle

Prat.

 

Screens in our face, over our eyes

in our minds.

Siding with popular opinion,

shying away from engaging that hungry engine, the brain.

Work them, encourage them

steam-powered as they may be.

 

Quiet, I crave.

 

No, they sing.

We need the noise, need the buzz,

need the bright lights and sweat and alcohol

and neon screens

to feel normal.

 

Normal?

What is normal

but a falsity of who you are

trying to resemble

the falsehood of others.

 

Hubbub.

Who’s listening?

Chatter, natter, prattle

Prat.

 

Quiet, I crave.

Independent thinking, I urge.

Eccecentric. Weird. Outcast, they sing.