Where the Red Ferns Do Not Grow

Fri, 02/28/2014 - 20:45 -- sussy

Location

I am not a transcendentalist 
No matter how hard I try to appreciate 
The golden shifts of the autumn leaves
Or the aggression of tides that scream into my ear drums 
In shapes of my deceased grandfather’s voice 


But I find trails of solemnity in my room
How terribly I had placed a useless lamp 
In pitiful attempts to shed a bit of light inside

Or the decorations I plastered on
Above the head of my bed when 

 

I somehow decided 
I wished to be more mediocre and less abnormal 

When attention was the oxygen I had breathed

 

But most importantly 
Me and my forbidden presence 
And its witness to my faint happiness 

 

Or surprisingly how many times I am able 
To yell “fuck” in a short five minutes 
Which I still believe 
Is a gifted talent

And even secluded from Mother Nature, herself

 

A temple of my own ruins

Guide that inspired this poem: 

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