Twenty-two

Alright...I'm reposting something I had up for a little bit on the 29th. There are a number of reasons why I'm uncomfortable to do so. First of all, it's a poem, and I don't normally write poems. Secondly, it plagiarizes something that was both written (quite beautifully I might add) and experienced by mindovermatter of Synaptic Transmissions, an experience that touched him personally and me vicariously. I encourage you to read about it here. I suppose it conflicts with my notion of "individuality," upon which I have lately written of my frustrations and confusion. As if I couldn't come up with my own experience to write about! Well, in my perhaps completely unnecessary defense, I did not begin writing this poem with the intention of alluding to mindovermatter's blog entry (since that is what I have to go off of). However, it seemed that the point I was making was illustrated quite well in his train story. I had no qualms writing the poem, which was intended to be nothing more than a humble excercise in artistic expression. By posting it, however, I fear of appearing cheap and pretentious. Nevertheless, I seem to have the go ahead from mindovermatter. And because this simple piece of writing is nothing more than honesty, which this blog may need more of from time to time, I give you a little insight into what F'er was thinking about during the transition from 21 to "Twenty-two."

Twenty-two

All I care about is me
And about my discontents
Countless dreams I fail to reach
And wasted time I’ve spent

I just turned twenty-two
Only fifteen minutes ago
Fifteen minutes, twenty-two years
What do I have to show?

So clearly I can see the world
In chaos and decline
My mind can see its problems
Though I only work at mine

I know I’ll never find content
In a world that’s sick and dying
Yet I can claim a love and grace
Sufficient for the trying

I still cannot be selfish
Hoarding love as wealth
It’s given me by overflowing
In sickness and in health

I will fail and I will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams

A boy of four or five
Was walking with his mother
She did not know what train to take
And needed help from others

Her own hard life was pain
Her innocence defiled
And now the debt to pay would be
Exacted from the child

While sitting on the train
A sad young woman boards
Her eyes betray the troubles
That the cruel world awards

And then she sees the boy
Perhaps as in a mirror
She takes her place beside the pair
In love there is no fear

Her soothing voice of comfort
Makes young bright eyes shine brighter
Her candy and her smiles
Will make his burden lighter

As if she were an angel
She comes and disappears
But angels I do not believe
Wear eyes as sad as hers

She will fail and she will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams