A boy's first fistfight, he's crying
all the way through it, stupendously alive,
and the girl raging in her room against the elite of the earth,
it's so unconventional, emotion in the chest,
the emptiness after passion, hope like money in a jar,
it's all feeling, expansiveness unwasted & alive, no one
completely understands this, like rain on a clear day,
or amplitude, the unrestricted dispensations,
someone offering a seat, someone hitting wildly back,
the ugly judgment in the plutocrats' eyes,
all from the heart, the jostling
that begins low in the soul, some day in August
when the lover to come, disguised as someone who hates you,
wheels around the corner adjusting her hat,
and that brisk business in the big oaks, wind
conveying some new way of life — or nothing important —
across town, it touches you.

Charlie Smith

I'm 24 years old and at a period in my life where I'm trying to figure it all out. The question I've asked over the years, "What do I want to be?" is still unanswered. Occasionally, I focus and write. Specifically, I like to write poetry and short stories. In general, I don't finish long stories. This is where I am right now.