Nobility. An interesting concept. Dictionary definition, "The quality of being noble in character, mind, birth, or rank." That gives you nothing. You're not supposed to use the word in it's definition and everyone, everyone, knows that. But what does it mean to embody it? Can anyone ever really embody it? We've all done non-noble things and does one non-noble thing negate the existence of a noble act?
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I am always worried. I have always been worried, no matter how hard I've tried not to be. What if this isn't right, what if I'm not doing this right? And that devolves into, what if someone moved my things, what if they changed my sheets or cleaned my room, what if the dust particles aren't even anymore, what if this is too little words, and what if it's too many, what if I will never be able to function again, what if my teeth fell out and what if I broke all my bones; where is this even going? Does it even matter? Does anything, really, anything, matter?
This might seem like an overreaction. It most certainly is, and I am very aware of that. Humans, however, have the ability to think and overreact in much the way I currently am, and that gives me a certain sort of pause. My dad's favorite quote is, "I think, therefore I am." I'm pretty sure everyone has heard that before, whether it's been from your weird history teacher, or the old guy who was essential in your creation. Creation. Another interesting concept. I don't know if we were created to overreact. I'm even skeptical of the notion that we were "created" at all. But here I am, overreacting, thinking too deeply, existing. But here I am, overreacting, and the world is continuing. Something makes me think that isn't an accident.
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Poems are not Cute
You’re like snow, every day in July,
and November. If I
look close I can see
where you’ve been nicked and scratched,
where your cheekbones end and begin,
where your rings are twisted and
un-twisted.
Everything will start, everything will stop
but I wish you didn’t, you were the ocean,
the night never came and sleep wasn’t
real. If I close my
eyes, I can smell
you on my sheets, I can feel the bones
of your hands.
Nobody says sweet like you, no one knows
what it means, like you. Milk and honey,
sweetness that doesn’t know it is sweet,
but when you blink, I know. When you
move your hands, one-two, three-four,
I know.
And laughing, you know.
You
know what sadness tastes like, what
it means to be asleep so deeply that the
world ceases to exist and the trees detach
and that teeth come un-glued. You flick in
and out, on and off dreams.
You are like snow, every day in July, and
November; I want your flakes
to fill every sky.
--------At this point, all I can say is that I wish I knew a better way to convey how I felt. And I'm sorry. I am always sorry, always.
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"And in the nighttime, she's beautiful
I'm sure her mother knows."
