DiSmith

I dont recall when I first knew its name Only know that it was made out of despair When my childish attempts at love Were rejected with indifference. Can't say now when one turned into the other Or if there was a final day before it sunk Irrevocably into the gunk of my heart; Have worked hard to forget. I never knew you, even as our days coincided And you didn't know there was a me to know. Even as you worked for security, for peace You were untouchable in your Haze of smoke and memories: Yellowing stacks of paper and books Piled high in the airless rooms and offices Foolscap curled and browning - Where a child dared not move - This child - who willfully dared to hope to be loved - In rooms where only the dust could settle or cling Where all my efforts could be dismissed As just sentimental. And when it came time to show your love for me you took time to care for The crumbling folders and arranged with your own hands the precious stubs of pencils.

I dont recall when I first knew its name Only know that it was made out of despair When my childish attempts at love Were rejected with indifference. Can't say now when one turned into the other Or if there was a final day before it sunk Irrevocably into the gunk of my heart; Have worked hard to forget. I never knew you, even as our days coincided And you didn't know there was a me to know. Even as you worked for security, for peace You were untouchable in your Haze of smoke and memories: Yellowing stacks of paper and books Piled high in the airless rooms and offices Foolscap curled and browning - Where a child dared not move - This child - who willfully dared to hope to be loved - In rooms where only the dust could settle or cling Where all my efforts could be dismissed As just sentimental. And when it came time to show your love for me you took time to care for The crumbling folders and arranged with your own hands the precious stubs of pencils.

I used to think that life was about waiting for a curtain call. Poetry itself doesn't yearn for some kind of stage youth-its vainglory-insisted that I might be on tenterhooks for something impossible or- -perhaps impossibly-something great. I wanted opportunity, but I was not an opportunist. You can become stagnant, overgrown and choked with weeds thinking the universe will give you some sort of handout because you can make something reflective beautiful. And it's not that I was unwilling or didn't work hard it's that I worked with the anticipation that purpose would fall into my lap, that I would grow large on my effort alone... ...that there was heroism in creativity borne from isolation. My most joyful moments consist of time with family and friends, of collaborating with peers and creating community with those not likeminded but familiar with the struggle to exist; the one simultaneous and in tandem with the deep yearning to be seen. And I will tell you that life is