This poem shows my obvious frustration at the time of writing it (probably 2/3 the way through the internship at IHOP) and this particular night I was struggling with just the simple idea of talking to God and being a person that He created. I'm sure I will struggle and rejoice with/in those ideas the rest of my life and more poems like this one are sure to come.
When I read back over it, the emotion I had then is no longer here (but could arise again quickly I'm sure!) but I love re-reading it because it's very honest. Whenever I write a poem in frustration or anger and it accurately portrays that emotion, it takes some of the frustration and anger away-- I feel like I've been heard...haha. And I can't rest until I've spoken:
Our conversation is pointless--
of what can I inform you of?
Am I not a line in a poem you
wrote who is attempting to convey
to you "where I'm coming from?"
What a joke our dialogue must be to you,
certainly my declarations of independence
are laughable to you, for there exists
nothing that does not come from your womb.
What can two friends discuss, the
one knowing nothing, the other:
On what common ground may
they stand? Is this a silly pun to you?
Or a plea for attention? That your greatest
desire is for all that you made to stand in your
presence telling you things about
yourself that you told them
to tell you? Is that the most you want?
A hall of gratuitous praise?
That we would all shout with one voice
the name that came from you to save us
so that we could shout the same name back to you?
If so, then I am confused about your intentions;
If not, then I do not know for what
I was designed. And again, we stand face to face:
You the substance; me, the mirror. I know nothing
but your reflection on my being, and you are always
insisting on your face for an answer.
Is this how our conversation ends then?
With no real exchange taking place? The words
I say forming only to reveal to myself
how much I don't know. The more I talk
the more aware I become of my ignorance.
My words are painting the face of my unknowing.
Thus, the only real sentence I can
give you of my own making is my silence.