893 West Street

893 West Street First draft. Just in case you didn’t notice, The seasons are changing. . . Variegated leaves tumbling in the wind, Like the shifting perspectives that roll off your tongues and into your ears. Too consumed with a broad point of view and abiding by the social Norms that surround you. I’m betwixt and between two worlds I can’t seem to commit to. Trapped within the statistical, trying to figure the probability that you and me Can converse about the differences that create this gap in our society. I’m finding it hard to quantify your frame of mind In order to take steps towards unity. . . You see, I try not to have expectations, thus I don’t see you as a possession, But I do have a compulsive obsession that gnaws away at these fingertips, While synapses go off like cracking whips lashing away at the hide of. . .reason, Broken into fragments, scattered about, nothing more than leaves tumbling down the stairs. What scares this campus from speaking its mind Is what keeps these accusations going. Eroding our sense of empathy Emphatically endorsing some notion of “diversity” Which has been raped and given a new meaning: To put on display our different backgrounds And have them criticized without a true understanding Of the privilege and poverty that create our framework. We’re afraid of being introspective and realizing what makes us ugly. So we hide from the rain of awkward glances Under the umbrella of comfort Created by social constructs that have surrounded us since birth Blindly following an ethos that severs the connection That we’re all yearning for. We truly are nothing more than leaves, Tumbling about, trying to find a place to fit in, Forgetting that acceptance comes from within.