Since a child
I have often wondered past
and asked the great silent nothing and nobody
why most whom
I most concern myself
to see me for me
could only see the version furthest from what I want to be.
I live day to day
swatting angels from the sky
and cursing devils
"fuck you, find someone else to come out and play"
You see I condemned neither,
as if I actually could,
and faulted none for being that which they are;
simply I could not suffer their compulsive need for influence.
I wanted to be my me,
faulted and ignorant,
angry and self righteous-
me.
But some could not allow that irritation to be.
At eight my school evaluated me for "gifted"
and the man said "He's smart
but lacks imagination, I can't see him ever being creative"
and all I could think was
what does he mean lacks imagination?
I imagine the world every day,
creating one improvement at a time
until it's perfect,
I just don't speak it,
so you don't see it.
Children step softly,
so softly they stomp,
ant hills and mole hills,
and psyches they don't want.
Adults are no better,
walking where ever
careless of those underfoot.
Gifted - where they put kids
they don't know what to do with.
Some called us smart,
mostly adults,
most called us weird, strange,
different,
geek, dork, nerd.
The list gets tiresome
and it's their sloppy definition of me
which is more bothersome than painful
because I have long been blessed
with the arrogance
of stereotypes are too two dimensional
to surround me.
Only specific insults
were pointed enough to prick
my definition of
the me I know,
and try to love.
The sticks and stones metaphor
doesn't make sense to me any more
and I can't say that it ever really did.
You tell me what kid
believes those words
as they're shouted
as hopeful armor
in the face of succumbing to a them
they didn't choose,
that they abhor,
and they simply don't want to be anyone
anymore.
But at eight I didn't truly know me
any more than I did when I was eighteen
and my boss gave me a graduation present-
"The Highly Selective Dictionary for the Extraordinarily Literate"
and I thought-
Ha! They finally get it,
get me the real-
then I opened the cover,
saw a personal inscription
only to discover that the real me of me
was more distant than ever.
It read "for when you finally write that manifesto"
with all connotations intentional.
And I thought " you assholes,
that will never be me"
forgetting to use the prodigious language
I held in my hands,
but sometimes simple is best,
and it fit,
and I quit.
I fit sidewalk puzzle cracks
only if they zig zag crooked,
and my foot path tracks back
to foot prints tracked backwards;
walking blindly,
or not needing to see.
Where I'm going is forward,
forever,
onward is the slogan shouted over the sled team
of mushing past mes.
Evolution of self isn't some grand idea with a plan,
its a daily demand,
unavoidable,
unobtainable on command.