RegretSometimes, it’s pride.You shake your head back and forth, refuse to step down off of the dais that your red velvet crown resides on, remain a foot above the others and all that can touch them cannot touch you.Sometimes, it’s stubbornness.You look down on everyone else as you stick to your guns, fighting a war that may only exist in your head, a war that wreaks havoc on your mind and conscious, but you fight on anyways because you don’t know how to say stop, please. I’m through.Sometimes, you’re afraid.It’s hazy and foggy, like on a dewy morning when the heat of your breath won’t clear from the windshield, and you can’t bring yourself to put the car in drive and just go, to trust where it’ll take you, to trust that you’ll make it there okay and not worse for wear.And when it’s all said and done, the bitter taste of all the things you didn’t do, whether by pride or stubbornnes
Song of Myself #21On Saturdays I remember making the trek down to Maple Hills Park,Sliding on my cleats over the shin-guard ankle protectors, jogging around the muddy and sloping field,Feeling completeness as my foot connects with the soccer ball and sends it sailing away from our goal, defending what is ours, as though I’m a courageous warrior, putting myself on the line to save the goalie,My first and longest passion,For the strategy and the battle waged on the turf fields, the smell of fresh grass in the air, the slickness of sweat on my brow, late nights and stadium lights, long car rides and warm-up mixes, the feeling of joy erupting in my chest when a teammate scores,All a part of me, of who I am, of who I’ll be in the future,And as a player molds their cleats to their feet through years of sweat and hard work, I mold my character with the lessons learned through the sport.And, during those games and practices, I fall in love with another aspect of the sport,Of running, of movi
Aluminum-Can CarsThe world drops out from below and my head lifts into the cloudsTo float like it has for all my life,Only this time it is for real.The window opens to views of below, and tiny aluminum-can carsWith ant-people drivers and potato-bug pets.Patchwork-quilt fields with streams of roads running past them,Then fluffs of vanilla cotton candy drop in,Slowly meandering by and saying a soft and sweet, “Hello.”As the soaring bird gets higher the view pulls back, like my camera lens doesWhen I get too close to my best friend’s face and the flash won’t go.The ant-people and potato-bug pets disappear, and all that remainsAre the glints of sunlight off aluminum-can cars.
The Stars “Come here, child.” The girl complied, shuffling her feet with a soft wish-wish-wish across the smooth wooden floor and climbing onto her father’s lap. He smelled of tobacco and dirt and wood and the outdoors, like all good fathers should. She wrapped her gangly arms around his neck and hugged him tight, as if she were to float away if she didn’t. “Look, look up there.” The girl looked, but not at where her father pointed. Instead, she turned her face up towards the wrinkled moon that was her father’s face. She could see the lights from above reflected in his warm eyes, bright with love and delight. He was old, but he never ceased to act like a boy when the universe showed him something new, as it was doing tonight. His being was alive and enthralled at what lay just outside the open window, waiting to be discovered. Now the girl followed the worn and thick finger upwards until her gaze was met by a winking of starligh