The sounds of the city beneath the bridge, next to Mount Vernon,
They remind me of a creaky old ship.
I do not like it here and the fact that I cannot walk alone across the blue bridge
But it was the farthest place that I could go from home without ever really leaving.
I worry about what I might become,
Or, more terrifyingly, what I might remain.
I wonder if this city ever feels the same
Or if it feels content residing by Lake Michigan.
I don't think anyone ever really feels content,
And I have tried to find inspiration in this city's architecture, but I am grasping at nothing
I find the grey skies and the expensive parking boring
So I always come up empty handed when my paper calls for me, my literature is dying.
I am too quiet
Too introverted and too strange
That I am hardly sure I could ever make a name for myself in this place.
Somehow people still know me, and I find it unsettling.
I'd like to reside somewhere untouched and belong to nobody's thoughts or body
But I imagine that it'd get lonely.
I don't think anyone ever really feels satisfied
And too often, I wonder, what is the point of anything?
I am running out of things to find worthy of my writing
And I think it is because although I hate it here, I spend my time running
Not from home, but from change, and I think that is my unbecoming.
Someday I worry I will unravel into nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Sunset Over Pointe Inn
PoesíaLove once stopped me from writing this book, and I hope that whoever is reading this someday finds the kind of love that inspired me to finish it.
