What I Became

There's no one here. I keep myself on hold, waiting for anything. Why is it so important for me to write all of this down? To examine it later? To make some consensus with my selves as to who I am? I can't even make a decision as to what this poem should be about. I stare at my face in the mirror for seconds upon seconds, But still I don't recognize myself when I walk past. I'm preoccupied with thoughts of campus tours, midnight knocks and failure. Something tells me I should get up from this place, move away, start over, scare myself straight. Too much insanity here for me to absorb and not enough paper or guts for me to hold on. What would a stranger say to these confessions? Should I call an old companion? Someone to tell me what I once thought I was. Would he even have an answer? Mother was so proud I knew about airplanes, but I never learned to fly. Can I blame her for clipped wings or broken tongue? I can't sleep at night nor dream during day. © on May 07 2001 03:49 PM PST   0 • 10