People are more what they do
and less what they say, here.
Funny then how,
their faces are only tongues
eyes-deaf, ears blinded.
Meanwhile, my weary childish mind
scolds my inner adult:
I have not aged a day
but I look at my yearbook
I wonder who that stranger
boxed-in, black and white-
looking chilled with rain
while roots were sprouting
within me, the memory
of each one pulsating, growing
within me and
and pushing through
shields me from recognizing
sorry excuse for
an unguarded small
My adult fingers struggle
to not point at others
especially those who
own (p)syc(h)ophantic language.
they taught and still attempt
to teach it to me still
frustrated by my original silver
and shining tongue.
Back in my head most of those
words were buried, tarnished.
Almost lost, but sprouting again.
I have since erased barriers scribbled
I recognize my own handwriting-I own it.
Walls have fallen and I see now
that everyone is lost and
no one is trying to save them.
I still itch to escape this country
so my speech can be less harried and
Americanized so I can find a tree
to sit under cross-legged like a guru.
--to become another continent in full.
I'll say it again, because
in the search for new identity
repetition is key.
I am too American, my writing is too American
see how it is too out there and blunt?
So erect and obscene.
And now arise more barriers to the mind
so I can ramble and forget who I am
and where I came from
especially when the questions are put to me.
Tickle your toes. . .
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