Con-Form

The spirit

That lives inside this soul

Is taking form

 

From birth

I was confounded and constrained

Pushed and pulled—

Shaped by human hands to fit their mold.

Their hold, they hoped would not grow old

Not questioned or detected.

 

I will not please these faker makers

I will not fill their empty space.

 

I’m not a clone to be projected

From some other place and time.

I’m not a copy to be modeled

Before or after

 

I am myself

Endowed with freedom

Scope and laughter

Never bound

Never re-mastered

 

I roam the planes and soar the skies

I am myself

A child of God

 

People without vision fail to understand

They look me in the eyes and fear

The unbound, wild, natural power

That peeks out from deep inside.

 

“You can’t afford to live like this”

Is something people say,

“You must be real and down your zeal.”

To them I say, “I am con-form.”

Love

Love is hard

You give, you give

And in the end

You cannot be certain

That what you gave

Was what was needed or enough.

Love cannot be tamed

Has a mind of its own

Lives and breathes in private

Inside of your soul.

You can try to express it, to show it

But it is difficult to communicate

The electric shock it created inside.

His first impulse

His first impulse upon wakening was not to embrace her or say “good morning,” no. His impulse was to check the time and leave the bed, go out and water his plants. Upon his return to the room he did not greet her and greeted the cat instead; went straight to the widow sill and watched his plant there. Poked it with his fingers, looked at it from different angles, and finally watered it.

“What are you doing?” he asked the girl.

“Writing what you are doing,” she replied, “do you want to hear it?”

“Yes just let me put my plant outside.”