Not My Usual Whatever *

 

Woke up knowing I want something different.
Something new, not me, but me expanded, altered, changed,
exchanged, whatever. Want to learn to write a new language,
one that makes the words pop up from the page, explode
with meaning, leaning into flow of wherever they want to go
and just leave them. Find a way to say all those things I never said,
except in my head, surprise myself into a smile, instead of worry
about what someone else might think, or not like, or can’t
understand
because they have no feeling for this unreeling of self
that I do, day after day.

At first, thought I needed a word revolution, some form of evolution
that would take me higher than I’ve been before. But, am afraid of
heights,
can only fly in dreams where it is natural to do such things
and not get broken.  Awoken, my feet are firmly planted, moving slowly
so as not to trip myself, fall on my face, keeping a different pace
to stay upright, yet leaning on a cane of sanity in order to be accepted,
while knowing I never will be.  Approval is for others
better than me, and funny how they don’t seem to need that.

No, it wasn’t the words that needed to evolve, but me to get out
of this revolving door that leads me back again and again to this room
of other doors always closing just before I get there. Closing quietly
with a click of a lock turned by time on a clock, and a hand
twisting on another wish for something different, something new,
expanded, changed, exchanged, whatever.

Do not care if you are ready, I am. You may frown, look down
your nose, did you know that makes you seem cross wise to your
stated purpose? You say you care, want what’s best for me, but we both know that the way in which I comb my hair is never on your check list
of the way things ought to be, and when they don’t fit, I must change
because we both know that you don’t need to. You were obviously
born to another form far more perfected, so I must be rejected because
I am different. I am not, but you must believe because that relieves
you of burden to change, exchange, whatever.

You might sigh, when you wake up to know that I am gone. Shake your head
vaguely remember dull thud of closing door somewhere far off in a dream
while you were sleeping. Might whisper on that sigh of how hard you tried,
and you really really did, but we fools just never listen. Think you hear
the ticking of my cane, turn to tell me wise things I need to know, find instead, empty air, right there where I’m supposed to be, but am no longer.
Gone somewhere, chasing after change, exchanging this for that,

and all that other whatever.

 

Elizabeth Crawford

Nov. 2009

**Brief explanation: This is what I call a cross-over piece, something that is both prose and poetry, but better than either when put together, finding more meaning in the mingling of the two. Some might call it a prose-poem, and that’s just as good a definition as any other.