So, my last post was in JANUARY! Talk about inconsistency! But never fear: I have an excuse (of course). I’ve been writing: lyrics, more lyrics, and even more lyrics. I thought about joining the circus, but in its stead, I joined a band. And it’s been an absolute wonder. The people I’ve gotten to meet, to become friends with, are creative, diverse, full of energy and a sense of determination specific to artists trying to share their souls with the universe.
Waiting for Shoes to Drop
Pessimism was not in my nature
when I was eight,
but then again,
there were hints of it
simmering beneath a surface full of smile and a sheer love
To be young,
is not to be optimistic:
it is to be inexperienced
in the matters of disappointment.
I was disappointed when I was young,
a time or two (it’s true),
but we don’t know the impact it has
until it’s too late to un-speak sarcasm
that bites at the heart of others,
to keep our depression words, our anger words at bay,
to not say what’s really on our mind
no matter the extent of the negativity,
a proclivity for pretending to see
the glass half full,
when really, your focus is on the air
in the space beyond the liquid.
(Though in reality, the glass can never be empty (since air and liquid are things), so, cheers to that.)
But I’m not eight,
I remember being so happy
it felt like the stomach pains of ever-laughter,
the deep type of guffaw where it tugs at your
tum like a rope.
The potential for optimism isn’t gone,
but fear disguised as pessimism is there:
it creates uncertainty, frustration, doubt—
things we’ve tried to live without…
but then experience tends to train you
like a dog with a bell,
classically conditioned into
waiting for shoes to drop,
a personal hell of self-created unhappiness.
But shoes can be tied tighter,
this is a possibility we tend to forget,
that we don’t have to give up on love or hope, just yet.
Or that there are so many types of shoes,
or the reality that I’ve never really seen a shoe drop, per say,
not in the way, at least, that pessimism intends.
Or you can choose,
to wear no shoes at all,
like you did when you were eight,
playing on a beach,
toes digging in the sand like you imagined
the head of an ostrich might do,
knowing full well where your shoes were.
I’d much prefer to stay barefoot.