Coming back to who I am
is a task I find quite difficult
I’m not quite sure who I’ve become
while waiting for the enemy
of Time’s fool.
I'm a soul force-fed puréed carrots
that needs sourdough and steak and stew.
I'm the waitress who sees a spilled drink
And tries to clean it up but ends up dumping
the rest of the coke on the customer’s lap
down his shirt
splattering the black-and-white tile floor.
dismal days drag on and I can’t bear another one.
I'm a dusty, broken street lamp (like the one by my apartment)
Somehow can't find a way to shine in the night
But around the hour of 7am finally flicker on with pride
Right around when I'm not needed anymore.
I look at my cracked snow globe in the heat of July
(the one my grandpa gave me when I was four)
And wish for my memory-permeated Christmas with all of my unsatisfied heart
And when I'm snowed in and icicles frame my window
I long for the July sun.
A soul that longs for perfection in my writing.
Rightness in third-world countries.
Redemption in persecution.
More room in my suitcase spilling over,
bursting the zippers with desolation.
I’m like a carnivore living on tofu
Alive, but never fully satisfied.
I wish for the world to be as it should
For sunny days but no drought
For relationships to heal themselves
For gunfire that could somehow bring peace
For nourishment in Africa and China
For every scraggly scrawny child to be loved
And I mourn and I mourn and I can't feel at home
In a world with so much wrong
I'm not meant for here
My soul is malnourished, parched
like the children I’ve seen in my travels.
I've lived in fifteen different countries to try to fill the void
and none of them are any better
I’m back to my small town where I began.
Is it earth then?
Would I fit in better on Venus or the moon?
No, there's a great longing beyond this universe.
A numb ache that tells me I'm built for much more.