Saturday, July 28, 2012
This Is Not a Poem
Once I had a job offer to relocate to Manhattan and become a rock journalist. I gave it up.
Once I only wanted to be a celebrated academic, a great scholar of literature. I gave it up.
Once I wanted to live in Spain and never come back to this mess called America. I gave it up.
Once I vowed to never marry or have kids. I gave it up.
Once I was on the road to getting my first book of poetry published. I gave it up.
Once I decided that I'd never speak to my father again. I gave it up.
Once I had a stable job, enough money to buy a house and financial security for the rest of my life. I gave it up.
Once I thought that family was the most important part of life. I gave it up.
Am I sorry? Am I glad? Does it matter?
It's just life. We all give things up. And we aren't always better because of our choices.
Whether I'm depressed or happy or angry or bored, I'm still here. I won't always be here.
The body has to give it up.