Walden.

This is a poem that I wrote for a few reasons:

a. To try and write something many people could relate to.

b. To try and shed light on the graciousness of mothers, since it is often easy to ignore them.

My mother would have once smacked me on the head, for writing this. There was a time when I was a very young and a very foolish girl and I was often not at home. I was often at other people's homes. In other people's beds, and kitchens and bathrooms and basements. I did not realize the value of my own home, and my own mother, and how wise she has been in letting me figure that out for myself.

This poem is also about forgetting one's childhood, and forgetting yourself. I have been feeling lost lately, and remembering my childhood is usually the only time when I feel at ease to dream. I think it is important to dream, even though we are grown, and have aching back pains and we notice that our faces are ugly depending on the lighting. Friends, I would ask you though, to please keep your dreams. They are important. Do not throw them in the bushes like you did with that bouquet of roses you were supposed to give to Jenny, but then you got scared, so you were left alone on her stoop still, but now all you had were sweaty palms and a stutter. Please do not throw up your dreams when you are suffering from alcohol poisoning. I bet the sewage pipes are filled with old dreams. So when you are feeling like you will settle for the mediocre, remember , who wants sweaty palms, a stutter, and vomit?


"Before me," Audio



"Before me," Text