If I could, I would fly somewhere for Christmas. Somewhere quiet and snowy. Somewhere where I could just breathe and not have to constantly pretend to be something that I fear I'm not capable of becoming. The first few lines of this poem have been my plea for the past week.
I have to leave the city now, she said,
Or dash my soul against my will instead.
Or dash my soul against my will instead.
I do not wish to have the quiet part of me
That once could rest (the part
That could just be) tossed
Aside and left somewhere
For dead.
Tonight it seems to me
That what some friends call energy
Is nothing more than a phenomenon of nature known as
"Incurable Whirling Disease."
"Incurable Whirling Disease."
Please, take me far from here, she said,
The buildings sting and echo
With the fumy cries of yellowjacket cars.
I took her hand in mine and said,
I'm thinking of a place now
Where I used to have to tell myself
Aloud,
Those are not clouds,
They're stars.
They're stars.
