April 2, 2001

Poetry and Sorrow

I'm miserable and disgusted at my co-dependency. Ryan is sick today...he came to school and I tried to console him but then I went to my locker second bell and he had left a note saying he went to the doctor and he probably wouldn't be coming back. It's like I'm having sympathy pains. I feel so bad, I miss him like he's gone for a week or something. Frankly, I can't function on a normal plane of existence when he isn't around. I love the poor bastard to death. He called yesterday when I was arguing religion with my dad, and his call had to of course be postponed until I could finish that riveting conversation. My dad really upset me, so I had to tell the story to Ryan, and then we got to talking about religion, too, and then he made me cry (mostly in conjuction with my already nervous state that dad had nurtured) and apologized profusely and I said it was okay and then we went on to elaborate and I've realized that I'm as unsure of my faith as anyone else is, christian or otherwise. Ryan said that he doesn't know what to believe, that maybe somewhere, with the best parts of every faith, is the truth. God, I love him.

At any rate, I think maybe I have finally truly emerged from my writer's block. I wrote a poem yesterday that I'm rather proud of, stumbled, actually, that my metaphors are coherent and innovative. So I thought I'd put it in here since I am now an official member of the poetry ring. We write poetry. Probably.

brief poignancy of the street at six p.m.

i had almost forgotten how musical the pavement could be
as i myself become more weathered
(like this concrete)
my own inner chords reflected through my old and ashy skin
my footsteps
(downbeat)
the drumming of my heart growing more feverish with the future's prospects
i hum yet
the wind playing my hair as delicately as it would a guitar
and i realize i have always been an instrument of God
(or whomever hovers there)
the brief poignancy of the street at six p.m.
blamed only for part of my revelation
(that other overwhelming percentage was, predictably, you)
so i brushed aside my current woes
for the inevitable soon-to-be sorrows
all the while wondering
"is this it?"
"am i percussion or am i winds?"
"am i brass or am i strings?"
it's evident
(even on this breezeless day)
:i am wind