Description: hehe... for all the uninitiated, Jean ValJean says that in Les Miserables... "and so Javert, you see it's true.. that man bears no more guilt THAN YOUUUU! who am I???? Who am I? 24601!!!!!"
I don't know if this is really a poem, it's more like musings on life.
And actually, I think my tragic love story just may be the most genius thing ever written... I keep reading it over and over... it's so sad! omg! ~.~ although I'm worried it's too sappy. It's all like, "I love you!" "No!" "Yes!" "well, ok then!" "I've been beaten up!" "Wait, I love you too!" "Cool!" "I've been manipulated into murder!" "Oh no!"
except a little more... awesome.
well yeah.
who am I? 24601! -------------------------------------------
usually when I look in the mirror,
I don't recognize my own reflection.
Depending on the lighting:
I look frighteningly old,
disappointingly young,
horrifically fat,
appealingly slender,
and I wonder which of these phantasms the rest of the world sees.
When I call home, I can hear
my voice on the answering machine:
Is that me? I sound
exactly like my mother
And I wonder if that is what the rest of the world hears.
And to make it worse! I can't recognize
my mind, even!
I can't decide whether I'm the dumbest joke
ever to struggle through college
or the brilliantest soul ever to pull an all-nighter writing
a tragic love story that ends
with a secret-ninja-style assassination.
And I wonder, does the rest of the world
fall into my fantasies as readily
and as intensely as I do?
Or are my stories like my voice-
squeaky and jumpy,
childish and false?
I don't know what to say to this. I can't critique it. And I know EVERYONE with half a brain has had these thoughts,
and even people with whole brains can't answer them. They just propose theories for avoiding them.
But you've said all this in a way that's relatable, you've used common denominators (but not the lowest or common) like mirrors and college and answering machines...
I like the honesty in this piece, and the unique and turbulent insights you give the reader to ponder. Everyone has these niggly insecurities, and the way you've presented this lets other people relate, yet still superimpose their own little dramas on top in places in this poem where it's more directly related to you and no-one else.
I think it's hard to write something like this that doesn't come off as either far too melodramatic or been-said-before in the exact same way.
And to make it worse! I can't recognize
my mind, even!
I can't decide whether I'm the dumbest joke
ever to struggle through college
or the brilliantest soul ever to pull an all-nighter writing
a tragic love story that ends
with a secret-ninja-style assassination.
And I wonder, does the rest of the world
fall into my fantasies as readily
and as intensely as I do?
Or are my stories like my voice-
squeaky and jumpy,
childish and false?
It seems the edge of your self-awareness has been worn down by same the grind that makes the artist question the value of their work; 'am I the sum total of my self-perception, the world's perception, or a heaping helping of both?' It is doubtful the world 'falls' into the intensity of your inner world. It's more likely the power and clarity of your vision must sway them so their senses can be moved by your world. I suppose that's how a poem, story, piece of art 'transports' the observer to your world.
And if someone understands you well enough, you're a revelation to them regardless of how you see yourself.
Since I'm babbling anyway, doesn't art in some form imprison the essence it attempts to imitate?
Ok, I've gone on far too long.
Take care, K.G.
Bill.
I liked the last line, childish and false. I've given it, these kinds of things great thought, and indeed what defined something as being a passion, even an aspiration was the will to care, and to dare. Why are childish things so false? It really isn't fair, they pay less fare at the fair, but you know, when you tell them santa isn't real, who's the one crying? What makes something special, meaningful, worthy of effort and to be culled among all those pieces of life, thrown asunder around, is well.... Do you care? Do you reallllllly care? Do you want to believe in this ? Is this what makes you you? Are you ashamed of it?
Why are children's game so false, so imaginary? Is it that superficial layer that society instinctively dresses on our children, shrouding their oh so crystal clear (and shiny) identities? What does it matter if everybody else doesn't believe you when you tell them that Marcus threw you the ball all those times at the park, or pushed you on your bike the times daddy wasn't there? Are they what makes him special? Would God exist if enough people believed in him, and in his existence?
The thing when you're a child is that, you're "innocent" in the eyes of society, defined as oblivious and ignorant to the "rights" and "wrongs" that we all live by, so being a rock against the current doesn't matter. When you start growing up, you notice all these little unimportant (or so they were) details that matter in the eyes of society, like the way you sound or look as aforementioned in the poem. You starting holding near and dear to you all these things that are copiously, and uninformedly handed to you by epitome, or simple call of "rationality"... Is it even vogue to walk around with baggy cacks, a torn and worn out kangaroo looking like a bum? Like heck. Why do that? Why not? It's impolite! To whom? I'm comfortable like that, so if I want to I will... regardless of you alll....
Why does it have to be a necesity to look goood? Well, I don't know why but people seem to think they'll be lonely if that don't look superb... does that really mmmmattter? If people are around you for the way you look, how does that put you in a better disposition than being alone? Reallllllllyy.....
And if I don't sound like one of them 40 year old zit ridden creeeps yet, no... Most people don't notice you and your little fantasies... They're too caught up in their own... So I must ask, why should yours be so important? And you seee.... most people don't realize that..... Why ask others to care about your things, do you any other?
I must apologize if you didn't want to read any of that, it was just on the spur of things because of your last line and all..
I'm liking this piece, the first two lines dragged me in, and i can see exactly where you are coming from. I to have looked in the mirror one day and saw something then the next seen something else....
As for how the rest of the world feels towards you, my philosophy is that no matter what people say you'll never truly know what anyone thinks of you so be yourself and be happy.
As for poetry, i would class this as a subtlety, poetic classic. But that's just me, i'm sure others will have different views, poetry to me is more about the feelings and meanings behind the words than how they should be laid out or presented....
Submission Name: who am I? 24601!
