misunderstand me

I wrote this poem when I was 20 years old....which was a damn long time ago. Funny how "they" say that things will change and evolve as you get older. The jury's still out on that one for me. Perhaps I have evolved, and this is only still relevant because it represents the spurned youth in me that refuses to go away entirely. Most art is created from frustration and pain though, right? I was chock full of that shit for my first 25 years of existence, so by that account, I should be kicking Picasso's ass.

It was all very dramatic during that time in my life, when I left the warmth and comfort of Southern California to go and "find myself" in Paris. No one got what I was in search of, but it was worth every second of confusion and ultimately, I got my shit together and became proficient in French, so it was a win-win.

No matter how far I've come, though, it still feels like this a lot of the time.


MISUNDERSTAND ME

Where is the law which dictates
The way I am to be read
I am not a book although
My pages are tattered and torn
Who was the constructor of the circle
Into which my square piece may never fit
I am not made of clay
Though I have been molded by my years
Who is the judge of action
Who is the reader of men
What does it mean when you tell me
To get back to myself again
For your eyes as you know
Are not my eyes
To me this is no shame
And the only request I will ask of you
Is to please not expect
The colors before us
Ever to look the same.