The Dandelions

The Dandelions

written by: Iluvia Triste 

 

I’ve always been awake at midnight
‘cause it’s only when I’ve become so
vulnerably honest to parts of me that
I’ve never laid out in front of the sun,
or opened up through a conversation
with a stranger at the bus stop, or an unplanned
gathering with my friends at nearby
cafe ‘cause we never talk about
philosophy, or
arts, or
museums, or
ourselves,
but, I swear, I adore the experience,
the fun when I’m with them.
It’s only that, when midnights come,
I realize I’ve never had fun
having a small conversation that
I place my own self into ’cause I
know it’s not where I’m supposed to be at.
I’m supposed to just stay at my nutshell,
and create arts,
and write poetry,
and become more committed to what
makes me whole.
Midnight has become my friend,
one inch away every time I feel distant
from myself ‘cause it
hands back to me most of the pieces I lost
especially when I’m so much exposed
to the world outside where
the dandelions mouth disappointment
when you are in your midnight
pajama, and bedroom slippers,
when your hands are full of paintbrushes,
or pens,
when your hair’s never been combed,
and your collarbones still carry the weights
of your midnight madness, ‘cause
I’ve learned you can never walk
outside like that. I mean,
to be outside is to decide to dress the same way
the sun does every morning that looks
too prepared for any celebration, and
is well-presented to begin a conversation
with the earth.
To be outside is to dab perfume of familiarity
on my wrist, on my collar, so I wouldn’t smell
so foreign to whomever I’d come across with,
or talk to at random places so they wouldn’t
be thinking I am just a lost visitor on their land
‘cause they don’t like a lost visitor,
I mean, different.

So I became one of the dandelions outside.

And oh, how disappointed I always am at myself

for being outside.