I am an Impatient Patient

(A few months ago, in mid-November to be exact, I found myself at a gigantic shopping mall, and I felt lost. I sat down at a bookstore which proclaims to be "extraordinary" and borrowed one of their blank journals. What follows is a poem that I began that November day and I finished at 2:30a.m. this 31st of March, 1999. I hope that you will be a bit more patient then I was, as you'll soon see.)

I am an Impatient Patient

I am a very impatient reader.
I hunger for the book
to fill the void,
that I fear,
it cannot fill.

I am a very impatient listener.
I am waiting for her
to get to
THE POINT.

I am a very impatient friend.
I am constantly wondering why
they're taking so much OF
my time.

I am a very impatient person,
trapped,
in a world that I long
to escape.

I am a very impatient spirit,
longing
and yearning for purity.
when I perpetually
feel unclean.

I am impatience.
. . .

My mind travels
faster than shooting stars,
never in one person's eyes,
for too long.

I am tired of this poem
for not bringing me
the satisfaction,
that I long for,
in its beating heart.

I am jumping out
of my mind
trying to find a
piece of mine,
in the confines
of this
man-made mall.

I am dreaming
of all the things
I want to be,
and yet I bore
myself with my lack
of 'accomplishments.'

My hopes are continuously
taking up dust
in the shelves
of my yesterdays
and the dreams of
my tomorrows.

Momentarily,
I am not afraid
to be honest with myself
as long as I
don't say too much.

I turn and desire
to be the father
I never had,
and wonder
when I'll be,
as they say,
READY.

I wonder
how alone I truly am
when the peoples'
smiles look almost
as empty as mines.

And I wonder
why I've failed
to build any bridges,
but have created
such gigantic walls.

I long for 24 hour hugs
to get rid of
24 hour drug,
in the form of
worries,
thoughts,
and my chronic
defeating mentality.

I am the most
accomplished author
whose yet
to accomplish
anything.

I am a piece of you
and I long to be me.

I am afraid of being
lonely
another night,
but am terrified
of being with you
just to fill
the physical isolation.

I am searching,
longing,
wishing,
for the hunger
to love myself as
I assume I once did,
when I came bursting out
of your womb.

. . .

I cling to memories,
when friendships
seemed real,
and my worries
insignificant.

I'm hearing
Marley,
Sweet Honey,
Arjona,
DMX and
Jaci
interchangeably,
as they
tune up
the pathways
to my heart.

I'm wondering how
one can be so selfish,
so narrow,
and so alone.

I'm beginning to ponder
if I'm saying
too much,
if my thoughts
are being broadcasted
on the malls'
public address system,
and the background voice
is reminding the listeners
that 'THIS IS NOT A TEST.'

The strange faces suddenly smile,
and I wonder why.

I wonder why,
I wonder why,

Why is it that
at age 25
I am so lost.

Why is that
I feel trapped,
six feet deep,
with no coffin
to hold me.

Why have I come here,
and if subconsciously
I know,
then why do I fight my
destiny.

. . .

I long to stop
using alarm clocks
to help me wake up.

I long to say
the things I
truly feel
and to
hug complete strangers.

I long for a world
closer,
cheesier,
smiling,
internally,
glowing,
growing,
flowing,
while planting seeds
and not needing to
avoid Chase Visa.

I long for our embrace.
I long for my love
for the Great Spirit
to truly guide me.

I am fighting
my impatience,
and am trying
to see the opportunities
to BE patient.

I am sick
to my stomach
of my contradictions
and I wish
I weren't so scared
to change them.

I am tired
of this poem,
but the pen carries
my weeping heart
without stopping.

I'm taking
a break,
along with you,
to catch myself,
before I fall.

. . .

Time's up,
my heart
cannot stop beating
because I'm afraid
to be naked in front of you.

My soul
cannot stop soaring
because
I'm afraid of heights.

My spirit
cannot stop its hunger
because
I'm afraid of gaining weight.

I am trying
to gain patience,
to accept
the vastness that
I cannot change,
and allow God
to do 'its' work.

I am resisting,
not arrest,
but pacifism
that drowns
me in tumultuous waves
of sorrow.

. . .
I am you,
and I am becoming me.

I am you
and I can
begin to feel 'HE.'

I feel you,
and I'm growing
with thee.

I need you,
and you are me.

I am at a crossroads
as a child
who feared the dark,
and an adult
who's trying
not to fear the light.

I am you,
and you are me.

Me.
We.
Be.
He.
She.
A part of HE.

FREE.

FREE.

free...


Written by: Cesar A. Cruz





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