Tuesday, June 21, 2011

A Poem: The Passenger

The Passenger

I wish this car didn't have to take me there,
I wish that the compass on its dash didn't have to always point north,
The pavement, the streets,
They only point one way,
I wish the passing pavement would go faster underneath our feet,
I may be only a passenger, but I feel as if out destination isn't the driver's grim expectation,
Its my wild imagination's wildest dream,
Full of grass and fields, all glowing green,
The sky would be a blue kind of gray,
I may be a mere passenger but I know the way,
But the compass is set on eluding me,
It does not waver, nor quiver in its place,
And while it's easy to imagine that when the car stops, my feet will not on be stone but sand,
I've come to realize, with a certain painful ache, that in the end, it is only as it seems,
And I am just a passenger with a dream.

To me, being a passenger means that while you can experience the beauty of the drive, the comfort of the scenery, you will always only be going to the driver's destination, and not your own. My own personal way to express what I sometimes feel like my days, weeks, and months are like. It is quite rare when a person feels completely and absolutely understood, and I suppose that's what the driver represents: the people who seem to look over your head and not into your eyes. They don't even try to understand, they just drive. 

But I am a passenger that knows her way. And passengers can always learn to drive.

Today was the first day of summer, and I spent it exploring, smiling, and getting sunburned. How fitting. How lovely.