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Peter's Story

No One Told Me

No one told me I could write,
Not a shoelace instruction how to tie on these magic sandals of flight.
It was tight and conforming, my expectation wet suit,
Pulled on to keep me warm against the dangers of the vast ocean of experience.
There was innocence and purity,
Held to rigidly against peer pressure's perfidious pull the wool bull
Full of craving vain, waning pain,
I abstained from the pleasure train,
Choosing a road of isolation, disconnection,
Adult affection, because I didn't fit in.
I wanted to do things correctly, perform my pieces perfectly,
Follow the law of discipline set out by my parents, school, church, God.

But no one told me I could write.

Please hear me right, I didn't have to fight an abusive father,
Endure a wide-hipped, loose-lipped mother.
My brother was a model of older responsibility.
My sisters endowed with loving husbands and beautiful families.
We didn't live in a rotting neighborhood with twisted metal wires,
Homeless-lit, trashcan fires,
Crafty, drug-induced, thieving liars,
The buyers, the tryers of addictive smoke spires,
And the shaking, sick children they sired.
We dwelt in the pleasantly, bland space between two, urban city hubs.
Shared our family's love,
Sang rub-a-dub-dub in the bathtub
Before bubbly, bedtime stories laid my head to rest on a pillow as my parents prayed for me.
I am thankful for every one of those memories,

But no one told me I could write.

I tried to construct math and science combination contraptions.
I am good with numbers and solutions, the ablution of difficult, technical problems.
It pays in coiny ways, garners praise from corporate slaves,
Raves from teachers, proud pastors, friendly neighbors, success cravers,
All 31 flavors to savor except the one I was made for.
I like my job, but it is somehow stifling, empty,
Leaving me unfulfilled and searching, for more, a chore
Open the locked drawer, pummeling war pounding the stronger, scrawny muse spirit,

Because no one told me I could write!

I will not stop tonight!
I will stay till the light in me dawns with the morning's ray liquid,
My insipid, rigid skin shell left behind,
Facing precipice edges with weightless anticipation.
I will fly, not deny, prophecy to my nation
An oration of vulnerable wit and joking tragedies of gruesome grit.
Are you down with it?  It doesn't matter a bit to me,
Cause I know who sees and is pleased with my personality.
He gets any accolades that may come my way.
It's His boldness that has released me from every fear and regulation today.

No one told me I could write.


Graphic Design & © 2008 - Peter Nevland. Website Design by Dan Kingsley.