I’ve run into a stone wall,
cold and solid like ice cream until it melts into tears.
I’m drowning in nothing,
lack of substance clogging my lungs
and pulling my hair.
It’s my cue to do something,
something to escape,
something to tell Harvard,
but nothing is cozier,
and everyone starts out collecting tears in a sugar cone
until they can reach something,
let us all know they’re worth it.
My piano thinks I’m worth it,
and what is there to distrust about an empty soul,
filling its chambers with currents of echoing
birds, beaks plucking the strings
and begging to escape.
I’m never honest anymore.
I can’t see their eyes under their aviators.
Faceless birds are all I have
to whisper to at night when I wish I was in Harrisburg.
Harrisburg has all the cures to my insecurities
wrapped up in a friend
whose lenses are as clear as his identity.
Sometimes
I’m not even honest to the hidden,
too afraid of someone looking through the screen
and see the disgraceful, unmotivated person I’ve become.
I’d work for something
if I could see the prize over my wall.
I slide down cold granite.
Granite sculptures are made out of many sheets of stone,
which are cut and shaped until ready for display.
And then they just sit there,
awkwardly waiting until they’re moved or vandalized.
It’s sort of how high school works.
Maybe I’m not even good enough for the birds.
Maybe they’re off in Harrisburg,
having a good laugh about my lack of phrasing.