A poem that does not look like my usual poems.
I am no longer scared to tell strangers that my dream is to become an author,
Only the people who know me well enough to say my writing is not that good. Dreams are never big enough for those I’ve yet to learn the names of but crowd the space with those I admire.
I find signs in the smallest acts of life;
If I hear the word ‘home’ in a song over the speakers in the supermarket, I’ll make plans to go. The title of a book that captures my attention in the library will always speak to my situation. In this way I find hope in the slightest of details and wonder whether I am seeking God or seeking comfort for a future I know nothing about.
Today I ran out of ways to forgive you and for the first time I didn’t want to cut my hair short. Usually I feel like cutting my hair amidst the change of seasons. I like to think I’ve matured enough to stick to my lifelong goal of growing it longer than my shoulders, but in reality I don’t want to give you the satisfaction of causing such a response.
I searched for signs today and I didn’t find one. I sought God’s face and he gave me the birds and the rain. They didn’t speak of hope and they didn’t comfort me when I asked what the future held, but they felt like something poetic and I’d say that’s enough.
My dream is to be an author.
The most pressing question on my mind is who I’ll dedicate my first book to.