I’m not a logical pattern to be studied,
nor a scientific formula to follow.
There’s a reckless rush to my ways,
an emotional river,
as I am a deep sea giver.
Consistency does not always broadcast itself in me,
no, not the way I’d dream to see.
A birds-eye view of my own jungle jam,
it would only light a fire, that I’d prefer to ban.
Don’t worry about my ebb and merrily row,
repairing my brokenness, is something I’m learning about as I go.
About the Creator
Rowan Finley
Father. Academic Advisor. Musician. Writer. My real name is Jesse Balogh.
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When “f” Eats, It Spells Feat
I can hardly breathe. The sadness in my throat is as tight as a rope that has been tied in a dozens knots. The muscles in my face attempt to move, but they are as a stagnant pond. I try to swallow but I just feel exhausted. Putting my feet on the floor, feels like an impossible feat. This is not how I was supposed to be as an adult at all. I was supposed to grow up and be confident, energetic and happy, not depressed.
By Rowan Finley a day ago in Poets
Comments (4)
Perhaps the ebb is a regrouping from the exhaustion of merrily rowing according to logic . Sometimes a reset helps us stick our smile back on straight.
It’s so refreshing to read something that rejects the need to be a logical pattern. Humans are messy, and that's the beauty of it. In our messiness, we find freedom, creativity, and unbounded hope
Feels like you’re not fighting the current anymore… just learning which waves are yours to ride and which to let pass.
Pattern recognition is my highest skill set and nothing i can ebb on.