03.08.2018.

many years later

When I was 6 I snuck into my grandfather's room
and found the poems he wrote
about girls he'd wanted to love
and the possibilities life could have held.
(I remember the feeling of exhilaration as I knew I'd done something forbidden)
I don't remember if he was already dead at the time
or he died soon after
but I remember thinking
'So you do this too, but mine aren't this good'
and I vowed I'd make them good.
That my words would sound grown up and serious too.

I didn't count on so many departures
and people leaving
I didn't count on the Universe saying
'ok, little one. Here. Make your voice heard.'
I never even thought I'd be here
thinking of the only roots I have in this world - my family and their home.

Their home because I never saw myself like I belonged on these hills
(never until I decided to leave)
Their home because I was always too busy up in the clouds
(hoping to be snatched up by the future)
My home because they are my home.
(Only sometimes do I remember I'm more of a vagabond, a traveler really)

I never counted on the world taking one of us
or me writing her songs on her birthday
(when I'm not too angry she's gone)
or my first real song being about her
(I wonder where that notebook is now)

I never took into account the fact
that to make your voice heard and your words good
you'd have to lose so much.
(Or maybe that's just for people like me who bleed words and not liquid)
nature and ginger hair image