stein.

heres a little poem
a little little poem
if I am lucky
its read by 2 people
maybe three
if today
is a good day.
but I am not 17 anymore
I shouldnt act that way
I dont care if you like it
I just want to you to know
what I know.
its hard
very hard
to be anything or
anyone when
all that one stands to glare it
in nive youthful assumption
that what is glared at
stops for you
to pose
as you look intently
the world it keeps moving
and I
one
you
one
are just so spec-ike
and it hurts us
that the world dosent stop
doesn't care
my mother
she i a genius
in her class
she use to utter mathematical equations
with the ease of removing dirt
from under her fair fingernails
her hair
thick and dak and her eyes
ever so beautiful
my mother was a vision
my mother is a vision
and I hardly took any of it
my father was an ordenary
somewhat scrawny man
who engulfed ancient words
that tickled his hot and soft
and mendable doe like
insides
who had a pen
and a flame
 and a movement
 and he loved my mother
 and wrote to my mother
 and married my mother
my father
isnt
as smart
as my mother
but he burns
whilst she sits
upon ice.
I think I am my father
and when I was younger
actually
maybe
up until yesterday
 I tried to fool my self
into saying
I am my mother
 I am her grace
and am her ice
and her sharp
quick
slick mind
and ease of crossed legs
into news
and news papers
silently grasping and observing
like my brother
and my sisters
with the swift of
mathematics
but I am my father
I am my father
I am scrawny
and tilted
and have written
over 90 books
about how to love
and be loved
because his dow like insides
know the pain
of feeling contents
and in the ease of a mind
unseen
I would guide
centuries
you
whatever you are
my mother
or my father
mathematics
or poetry
or both
sitting in your room
having a day
of late afternoon
and tea
and nothingness
of birds at your window
and nothingness
of books
you are afraid to hold
can
flicker
in your miniature
reflection.

reading this poem
this scrawny little a poem
written by someone who knows
less than you do
is lost more
than you can ever grasp
maybe even on the verg
of throwing away entire lifetimes
for the moment
a poem ends and sums up your scattered flames
say
I say
be what you are
what you glare at
may move away
and not wait for you.
but there are parts
of the vast untouched world
that waits for you
the very spot you were born to mend
with your flames
or your ice.