End Kwote

After it's all said and done, life's just a bunch of kwotes

“You write too many love poems,” said the girl who I read my last love poem to. It’s true. I do.

I’ve written about the people who I wish would tell me “It’ll all be ok.” I’ve written stories about their eyes, sonnets about their legs, and songs about their faces. I’ve bent rhyme schemes so they would fit to the shapes of their bodies, I’ve spent hours thinking about what word would go best at the end of my next sentence. And would that make you happy? And would that make you love me? “Would that make you love me?” I ask sadly staring at my ceiling fan as it breaks the hearts of so many dust particles just begging to settle down on my window sill.

But after those poems were written and spoken in my finest voice, the air turned thick in my lungs, and my heart refused to beat. And I wondered. I wondered if Mr. Young really had a Heart of Gold and if his cowgirl in the sand was only a figment of his imagination. I wondered why I wrote those poems and who I wrote them for.

But I don’t wonder anymore. Because this is a poem for the people who deserve it.

This is a poem for the ones who go home lonely on the weekends, for the ones who, when the week ends feel weaker than when it began. This is for the ones who stand solemnly independent at the back of concert put on by their favorite band. For the ones who have no one to tell them things like “It’ll all be ok.” This is for the poemless, songless wanderers who wonder.

And I know you’re out there, you’re heavy heart held together by paper clips, high hopes, indie movies, and solemn songs. It beats in your chest “I am, I am, I am,” hoping that someone will hear it. “I am, I am, I am” hoping that someone will believe it. “I am, I am, I am” faster and louder “I am, I am, I am.”

I know where you’ve been, because I’ve walked down that road once or twice. I needed ice when I got home because the kids on that block beat me up so damn bad. With black eyes, broken fingers and sprained ankles, I limped back to my room, wishing someone would write a poem for me.

So now I write this poem for you. I wrote this poem so you know you’re not alone. I wrote this poem in hopes that you’ll hear me hearing you.

And so, if you’re out there, if you deserve this poem, know that where you are, I will be. Miles high in the deep. On that block, in that street. Anywhere in between. Where you are, I will be. Seeing you, hearing you, and giving you my hand so we can hold together like rubber bands, so we can stick together like wet sand, so we can beat together like “I am, I am, I am.”

It’s true, I do write too many love poems. But let me write one more. Let me write just one more. For you.

The people who deserve it.


 

Lately I’ve been enjoying revisiting old writing and tweaking it. Not only is it a good exercise in realizing the weaknesses in my earlier stuff, but it’s also kind of fun just to revisit my mindset at a particular point in time.

This is a slam poem I wrote a little less than a year ago. It was written to be read out loud, so I had to mess around with it a bit so it read better on the screen. Hopefully I did an ok job, and hopefully you enjoyed it.

I think I’ll keep going back to the writing of my past. It makes me feel like time isn’t moving so fast. But I have some other things to show you, so expect to see new things soon, too.

Until next time.

End Kwote

One thought on “A Poem for People Who Deserve It

  1. I was waiting for the poem but then I realized that was the poem and a spoken poetry at that!
    Great one

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