I can, but I can't.

And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more.
People talking without speaking,
People hearing without listening,
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb the sound of silence.


http://nuddy--pants.livejournal.com/39507.html

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/article.html?id=182837



Tonight, I am filled with the madness of youth, but I am trapped in the net of how tame I really am.

Some nights, I just want to scream and yell and be out until five in the morning, walking along the beach and wearing my shirt too low and drinking too much and saying things I never wanted to tell.

Some nights, I don't want to curl up on the couch with my books and my laptop and the tea I haven't been able to make because of the kitchen being remodeled and the stove being detached.

I don't want my soft slippers and comforting cotton pants.

I want to wear too much makeup that will smear and I want my jeans to be too tight and smell of spilled liquor and I want my hands that I obsessively wash to be sticky from my own sloppy drinking of something I can no longer name in a red plastic cup.

I don't want to be the modern poet, caught up in my comforting home. I want to be Jack Kerouac. I want to be Charles Bukowski. I want to be Allen Ginsburg. I don't want to be the domesticated human.

Can't I be wild every so often?

I know I break the mold every once in a while. I know I can be a mess. I know I can, and I know I crave it, and I know I feel a little bit better, a little less soft, when my hair and my hands smell like the black kretek cigarettes I smuggle into the dark, hiding them from my Father in the middle of the night.

Why isn't anything ever enough?