I have not posted any poetry before, but I found this piece I wrote a bit ago while cleaning out some files. As I read it now, it explains a lot to me about what I struggled with for several months. This was something I don't think I really fully grasped until a few weeks ago. Pity that we don't always understand what motivates our writing. Bigger pity that we don't always read what we have written in a moment of singular clarity. I remember very vaguely writing this and thinking nothing more of it than it being a play on words. I never read it again until today.
I think perhaps I will pay more attention to these little pieces in the future. Even if it is only to take the time to transcribe them from paper to type. Perhaps in doing so I will find clarity more quickly and ease my days rather than complicate them.
Is there a point to all this drivel? Nothing more than I wish I had paid attention to what I knew then, instead of reading it now.........
Aspiring
Aspiration is not often exhilarating
It does not yield softly to its inevitable eclipsing
The defiant addition of unstated demands
yields little when confronted with its guttural counterpart
That harsh uncompromising and immediately
word altering, world clipping change
To learn so much from such quick lessons
To want so much and know of its futility
When the self has so little to give
To aspire to be eclipsed is a lesson in language itself
A wrapping of the heart in the native tongue
Completely foreign yet a final piece of the puzzle
In the jumble sale of the heart
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