Ailin Chinn '23
I want to speak a little louder about this sometimes.
How we breathe toxic hallucinations of the future so
we can wish upon a dim star to be greater tomorrow,
But the drummer is the time keeper;
And I foam at the mouth for the acidic taste of my nails
only to keep you in check. And as the clouds begin to fall
onto frosted meadows, a sadness washes over
when those dreams are being reassessed
to remove the expectations.
Ideas are always present, but when a turtle tries to cross the road
it pops the tires of a stranger.
All attempts fail to organize the brain,
but a sliver of hope keeps the blood moving.
Or maybe it’s the fear,
the fear of miscommunication. The music that was chosen
has weak meaning. Memories try to resurface
but short circuit. Instead, my face is ripped open,
bloodied by the bare hands of my lover. It bothers me that I
haven’t quite painted a purpose in my life.
But of course, it’s always during the shift in the day
when I’m reminded of the vision.
Everyone wants to immerse themselves into a pack of howling wolves.
It’s crazy how much we miss
because we’re so distracted by the wants
rather than the needs.
So, to curse at the world would gain you nothing.
Conserve your energy and sleep past your third alarm. It’s not laziness
and it’s not for the lack of drive.
So when the cold tries to bite at your feet and pinch your fingers,
rely on that smile and kiss on the cheek.
And sure, your mother will tell you you’re insane,
reach for your head to pull at your hair
and beg you to change your ways.
But you’ll just look outside like always,
and wish you were free.