The Breakfast Club Assignment

pensive.

p-e-n-s-i-v-e.

I’m always thinking up here.

and I got

countless things

that I carry inside of

this angry,

ridiculous little head of mine.

 

all I do is think.

and there are soundtracks,

songs perfectly fit into

the gray memories that I occupy.

there are daydreams

repeating,

frozen in time.

like a record with

a broken needle.

there are faces of

people

I've never met

that i've fallen in love with.

there are thoughts

that never end.

I am infinitely

expanding inwards.

 

and it's within my

pretentious, pensive self

that I also note

what a walking contradiction I am.

 

contradictory.

c-o-n-t-r-a-d-i-c-t-o-r-y.

quiet minded,

with a loud mouth.

 

an angry person,

with calm intentions.

 

a force to be reckoned with,

a timid soul.

 

 

I wait for the day to seize me,

I long for silence.

 

I find everything to be an art form—

I wish to love the world indefinitely,

but I also with to set the world ablaze.

 

sometimes the roses hold thorns, and

sometimes the thorns

hold rose petals.

 

wishing for the equilibrium

that I’ve been told

is for normal people

and that perhaps

I should try it.

 

observant.

o-b-s-e-r-v-a-n-t.

finding patterns,

watching the gears turn

while everybody else

is too busy looking at the time.

tick, tick, tick.

 

and the details are never forgotten.

 

the red graffiti on the sidewalk

where I would wait each morning.

 

the tick that

he doesn't know he has.

a tap on the hip,

a giggle,

then another tap.

 

I have a lot of these.

 

little feelings, little memories

I collect them like pressed leaves

they seem to remind me that I'm human:

 

walking barefoot

on a cool patch of grass.

the first sip of coffee

on the first day of spring.

the smell of barbeque

mixed with fireworks.

putting on a beanie,

covering numb, ice cold ears

on a new year's night.

windmills spinning

on the endless fields

of west Texas.

feeling cool rocks on

the desert mountains.

 

it seems that perhaps

I am who I am

because

of the little things.

it seems as if

I am

comprised of these things

they're the thread that has woven my entire being

 

I think

these tiny things

have taught me

to stay humble.

to remember life,

to swim through it,

with not just the life-changing

stories we've been forced to remember,

 

but also with

our little indicators,

that show us we're alive,

that we're surviving,

we're in love, we're beautiful in sight and soul

and we're not done changing yet.

 

my own little transformation.

m-e-t-a-m-o-r-p-h-o-s-i-s.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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