My wardrobe is filled/
with clothes from women who sought/
to dress me better.
OR
to improve my look.
OR
to improve me. Why?
Everyone has the/
soul of a poet. Just look/
for and accept it.
Why do I seem good/
at “getting on with life”? I /
don’t know I have to.
Though you and me may/
disagree, we should be glad/
we have voices free.
People exclaim:
“It must
be tough
to live inside
that head of yours
with everything
that goes on there!”
The insecurities.
The confusion.
The misunderstanding.
The doubt.
The intensity.
The pain.
The mistrust.
The loneliness.
That might be true.
Sometimes it is tough.
Sometimes I make mistakes.
SOmetimes I use faulty logic.
Frequently, I don’t think things
through
clearly
or rationally.
Still,
from how I’ve seen others live,
and from what I’ve seen in the world,
with all my brain’s
quirks
and confusion,
and pain
and insecurities,
I like that gray matter
that makes things matter.
It lets me feel things
others don’t
or won’t.
It lets me experience
the noisy violence of rock
and the silence of rocks
and comprehend
and write about
both.
My brain
connects to my heart
and my soul
to let me observe
and hear
and comprehend,
and reveal,
and explain,
when others just say
“What?” or
“Where?!?” or
“Huh?” or
“________”.
And sometimes
my quirky,
edgy,
Carpe Diem
brain
just lets
me
just be.
As soon as I named*/
myself Carpe Diem Man,/
I stopped being him.
OR
I stopped day seizing.
*The person who named me “Carpe Diem Man” reminded me that they’d bestowed that name on me, so technically this should be “called”, as in “As soon as I called…”