Bus Poetry [0]

I’m not sure how many more times I’ll find myself scribbling [or, typing] a series of thoughts into my phone while on a bus traveling around this college campus. With about a week left of this school year I’m sure that my “Bus Poetry” will come to a momentary standstill until I return to school for the Fall Semester. I really love the feeling of being on public transportation. I know a lot of people can find it extremely exhausting and dull to have to sit and give up the moments in their schedules to a commute, to the whims of the traffic and of another driver. But, especially on those days when my mind is caught up in itself and its galaxy of thoughts, I find that these bus rides serve no better service than as my place to sort through and transcribe.

Here are a few thoughts and quick poems I wrote: some of them feel to me more like spoken word, though. Recently, I’ve been obsessed with the concept of time, the inevitability of aging, and the state called adulthood. What does it mean to be an adult? To be a working person? We expect to mature with age, but now that I am older, those who I used to look up to as if they were gods are now so very human in my eyes. This is because at this age, now, I don’t feel as though I’ve transformed into a celestial being at all. Rather, every day I learn more and more flaws about myself and my daily task is to become better at accepting these “unwanted” traits. But now I digress.

Here is my “Bus Poetry” in the order of me writing them today while students got on and off at each stop.

ONE:

Those days are over now,
when ignorance was a cute thing,
No, now, we are beyond that stage
in our lives and we as the
walking talking adults in this world
need to know the happenings of the world
so as to guide those who are allowed to
turn their heads and shrug their shoulders
Because yes it’s cute when they don’t know.
But is there a way to hit pause and rewind just a bit,
back to the moments,  not even to the days
when we pulled pigtails and played played tag on the asphalt,
but to the moments just before now
When I came into college thinking
I don’t care about money,
I don’t care about boys,
I don’t care about prestige,
My life is about me a young independent woman.
When did those moments get stolen from me,
My smile barely expressing half the enthusiasm I had
the few moments before.

TWO:

Does one year really make that big a difference?
What about two? Three?
Looking at the fresh faces around me on the A
makes me shrivel a little inside.
I know those faces have yet to face
the world that’s carved this face
into one that speaks of
uncertainty, realism, and struggles.

THREE:

Poetry is no longer simply a set of rhymes,
a rhythmic lull of thoughts come to standstill,
but a mashing of words from the mind
which express the deepest and most nuanced ideas
Or perhaps the most comedic and relatable lines.
Regardless, they’re conversations,
the beginning of discussions that swim,
into the brains of its readers
to meet and greet with the thoughts of those
who’ve welcomed these words into their world.
And, so, the discourse on this topic and that
expands and expands,
And, so, like Sidney’d agree, the poet’s license
for creativity must now be more heavily considered
as the license to influence,
a much too serious responsibility that the fauxs have taken
and made their own,
and under the pretense of good speech
have fooled those who are to be fooled.
So, now we as readers and consumers of the products of language
have the duty,
The civic responsibility to prevent our own folly
of believing the wrong,
And, yes, though poetry is expression and lives off of
the freedom of subjectivity
I must say there is a wrong,
a wrong that is recognized in moral conditions
and none other than the inability to acknowledge the life
of a human or other living organism on this earth,
so the legitimacy of a poet’s license lies
in us the ones who give it value and life
or choose to bury it deep within the depths
of man’s hideous history of atrocities.

M.J.: 04/26/2017

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