The Thunderstorms in Retrospective June - July 3rd, 2008

Upon my return, I watched the wastebaskets cross my room.
The wicker basket picked up all the paper and eraser shavings.
The plastic basket picked up all the used pens and bottles.

There was relief until the storm had hit.

Alone in my dusty sanctuary, left to the wooden cages -
I watched the rain outside pummel the ground through a cracked window.
The thunder boomed and the lights flickered.

Mother Earth had spoken, knowing it all.

Stuck in my poetry books, looking desperately for answers -
the words of my mentors began to bleed off the pages.
The collected ink of a century's time began to whisper.

But could it understand what I had always meant to say?

I had instantly been reminded of the days that passed,
the mistakes that I had made within them.
Though, apologies no longer spill from my lips.

Maybe I had finally learned my lesson.

One stanza had found and scolded me repeatedly:
"Every man is a half-open door
leading to a room for everyone."

Lovingly, I've always decided to cover my ears.

--

The quote itself comes from one of my favorite poems by Tomas Transtromer, "The Half-Finished Heaven." I had found that in my current and past states, that quote didn't apply to me (or even a lot of people I know.)

We're not open books or rooms or anything, even my closest friends have to pry the metaphorical lock of with a diamond crowbar before my mouth ever opens. Everyone has their guard up, and for a little while, I regretted letting mine down.

I'm posted this now, knowing better and understanding what that person meant when they said those things to me. So thanks, even if you'll never know.