Wolfy Chai

Who is it that I am,

but a twinkle in the sand?

What am I searching for,

that I have not already found?

An identity that’s puppeteered?

Carved by scoffing looks? molded by phony aspirations? Welded by my tears?

Dreams other people lived out on my own behalf when they thought they’d seen something in me, the gifts I was lent, or the “potential” I possessed.

But it makes me long to disappear,

and no longer be here.

I can’t stand it any longer.

Here, where the only commonalities found, are on the Target shelves in town.

Where people salvage, for windex, febreze and bleach, to polish their houses.

Fabric softener for clothes, and animal leather for a pouches.

Where everyone is a fake, like the products that they take.

In contrary, I see realness in the trees

Realness in its leaves.

Realness in the silence that sits between the idle noises of the birds, and, the bees.

Realness that paints the skies with unobstructed hues of amber and blue.

Realness that saturates, an atmosphere made crisp: its air cleaned by the smell of the morning dew.

A realness that hums, vibrates, shouts, dances, and lunges fearlessly taking up its space.

But is this actually real?

What is it I am chasing again?

What if that this too is fake?

Is it not true that nature always saves those with my fate?

Yes I have hid in the woods, been held by the ocean, summited vacant mountain peaks. Searching far and wide for new places to be.

But I want more and more each time I get a taste. I just hate myself; thinking maybe I’m just a waste.

So now I am not sure what is it to do.

If I could just get one clue.

How do I become content, and not fast-forward through my dents?

Only re-living the sugar-filled “highlights” that have long paid my rent.

I want to feel alive.

Without spreading more death and exploitation in my stride.

More more more more more. It is what I do.

How do I be happy while not wanting more from you?

How do I bring back wonder and show selfishness the door?

Who is this monster in me, and why do I always come back for more?

Why do I feel my reserves of meaning, substance, and intellectual discourse have all run dry?

My face no longer animated, brightened and coming alive?

Why do I suddenly fear silence, isolation, loneliness as if at any second I could die, when that is what I spent my entire life fighting for? I really have tried.

Now it is in the silence of sleep where my nightmares freely creep.

For the waking hours I can fight with a little more bite.

Other people may be happy with these ends left untied.

But that doesn’t sate what my mind knows is fate.