By Jen Fremd
(For full percussive effect, please read this poem out loud)
First, thinking about life.
I once tried to figure out the equation to socialization
and if you can’t tell from this explanation
Small talk is my jam
but I feel like I cram studied for that final exam called
a conversation and
I failed due to that lack of proper preparation.
Flowing words are an intimidation
leaving my frontal lobe in stagnation
and the only incantation I can summon is
“Hey, how are you doing?”
The issue is,
how can I add depth to a conversation
when there is no depth to me?
I’m so far gone in my mind
my thoughts can’t help but be empty.
I hide behind this paper mask,
this temple, this shrine, these
voices, this landmine.
I cannot seem to bind myself
to the things around me
So one day these binds will unwind
and I’ll just blow.
I’m not here.
I don’t really feel
so how can I feel real?
These thoughts as old as Earth’s ancestry
Yet words cannot explain a sense of nothing properly.
So alone in my silence I sit wondering
how can I be a member of society
when I’m only a visitor to reality?
Second, Thinking about Heredity and the trends of Family.
I’ve never tickled my wrist with a razor
but I’ve used one to tickle my fancy.
I’ve turned the scars in my heart into art on my body
with a meaningful touch of permanency
that burns with regret and indecency
as they’re healing.
If I’ve moved on from my past,
why do I feel the need to write out my history
on every part of me others can’t see?
I’ve moved out of town,
I’ve made it to a fancy private school,
but inside I’m still the trailer trash fool
that almost failed second grade.
I’m made from my mother’s legacy, and
my mother’s legacy is made of rubble,
but once that rubble made castles.
I am the heir to Ozymandias, and
his kingdom of scattered sand and shattered stone
is where I was left to create my throne,
to delude myself in hopes
of forgetting how fast I, too,
could turn to ruin.
My roots run deep
and it’s all I can do to keep
myself off of that steep
decline into poverty and mediocrity
that comes so easily to the genes I have inside of me.
Third, thinking about lives.
because there are so many lives.
Wasted lives, Long lives, short lives, real lives, wasted lives, fake lives
wasted lives, fulfilled lives, calm lives, wasted lives, fast lives, wasted lives,
wasted lives, wasted lives, my life.
I said thinking about lives.
Correction, take two.
Third, thinking about my life.
Because there are so many lives,
and I can’t help but worry only one will apply to me.
I want to do something big, I want to be somebody
but my infinity is passing by so quickly
I can barely keep myself from stagnating
and realizing I am between average and mediocrity.
My ego is on the brink of seeing that
I’m not as important as I like to think,
but for the sake of maintaining my steam,
I like to imagine things aren’t what they seem,
and I’ll just bloom late.
Accepting it or not though,
every special little snowflake melts away.
I like to think about things that make me uncomfortable.
I want to invoke those thoughts that make me crawl
in hopes that if I face them
I’ll no longer withdraw when they come to mind.
Hidden under my skin
they only become a din
I try to hide and stifle within,
leading only to uncertainty, fear, and my depression.
Spoken in my head
I can ponder them until their power is dead
and come to terms with what was, what will be, and what has been