I do not believe in fairy tales,
or astrology, or what the state has just put up for sale
(more dead bodies from the minorities. Hooray).
I prefer to fail
hard, and fast, and strong.
You know invention is the daughter of necessity,
and the son of being wrong—
right?
Do you imitate people you respect
because the exact way that they have lived might
somehow be the same for you? Even if you leave aside individuation
think about just the word individuality, and what it tells you:
that we are all different,
and the lessons that we learn,
and the skill badges that we earn
for ourselves are all going to be different—
the Kevin Martens skill tree
is going to look completely dissimilar
to that Flame-of-the-Forest
that you keep setting fire to.
Don’t do that! Put it on. Get used to the bark. To the dew
that creeps up the spine gingerly, at the aurora dawning of day;
now you know why the Dreamtiger loves to work and play
on the floor. It is easier to feel Gaia’s respect and strength
and the way your own body soars
connected to the Earth, and to Karimang, and to everything else that has worth.
You can have it too,
if you just learn that singing alone,
and inventing without any kind of structure or floor or throne
is sometimes the best kind of eureka,
the most bountiful kind of mirth.
I don’t invent poems;
I tame my heart,
and the rest is what fills me:
my acknowledgement of my trauma is both my genius
and my very devastating sense of hurt.