My art suffers from attention and will.
In my hunt for a better life, I shot
an arrow straight through my art’s heart
and the pain still lingers in mine.
In school, they tell us, “Follow your dreams.”
but then you get home, and your father hands you a list
of dreams you’re allowed to follow;
they should teach “follow your parents’ dream list” instead.
I can hear songs from mountains that are far from me.
the distant howl of wolves, lurking beyond sight or light,
testing my resolve to tell the truth, as bare as it is.
“I am scared of what I will not be able to become.”
Most Mondays, I run from this truth
and through the week, we play tag and hide and seek
and like old friends that know where the bodies are buried,
we drink ourselves to sleep on Friday nights.
I am what I am, I will become what I will become…
