I found this small bit of writing that I had tossed aside and forgotten about. I read it in a writer's class to get feedback about what people saw me doing with it. People said to me (mostly poets) that they saw it as a poem. Personally, I see it as the beginning of a story, which I am continuing. Why I am placing it here though? People said to me that they felt it is something that can be felt by many people, so I wanted to share it. I would be interested to hear how others respond to it, and, if they see it as a poem or not:
Looking At Normal
I am looking at the face of anger. I am looking at the face of aggression, of rage,
of wanting to destroy, of feeling no happiness staring back at me in the mirror of a face sagging with age alone and tired trying so hard, and it never feeling like enough. I want to find this small corner, to hide in, to curl up and not be seen like when I hid in the closet as a child, when I wanted to run away, and there was no place to run to.
Most people here don’t know that kind of world where everything turns to disaster,
even one’s own home isn’t safe, and everyone around you berates you from kids,
to teachers, because you are awkward and don’t do things right or even worse
don’t know how to do things right—you were never taught, so you never learned.
There were so few kind faces, smiling faces, loving faces revealing something of joy, serenity, graciousness, of the earth, of the beauty of a leaf falling or cups of tea. I was looking for that. I was looking for all of that, and I found it slowly, but I was awkward so awkward. I tried to cover it up, but it dripped from me like the stains on my clothing, the pin in my bra like the one in my grandmother’s apron. I was looking for that heart song shared, before I knew what I was looking for, before there were any words attached, before I knew that it was not just my mother that was crazy, before I realized how crazy what is accepted as normal is.
Looking At Normal
I am looking at the face of anger. I am looking at the face of aggression, of rage,
of wanting to destroy, of feeling no happiness staring back at me in the mirror of a face sagging with age alone and tired trying so hard, and it never feeling like enough. I want to find this small corner, to hide in, to curl up and not be seen like when I hid in the closet as a child, when I wanted to run away, and there was no place to run to.
Most people here don’t know that kind of world where everything turns to disaster,
even one’s own home isn’t safe, and everyone around you berates you from kids,
to teachers, because you are awkward and don’t do things right or even worse
don’t know how to do things right—you were never taught, so you never learned.
There were so few kind faces, smiling faces, loving faces revealing something of joy, serenity, graciousness, of the earth, of the beauty of a leaf falling or cups of tea. I was looking for that. I was looking for all of that, and I found it slowly, but I was awkward so awkward. I tried to cover it up, but it dripped from me like the stains on my clothing, the pin in my bra like the one in my grandmother’s apron. I was looking for that heart song shared, before I knew what I was looking for, before there were any words attached, before I knew that it was not just my mother that was crazy, before I realized how crazy what is accepted as normal is.
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