Cut off
you took your scissors and
shut off
the red rushing rivers of
my blood.
Flowing somewhere
without me.
There’s nothing here
I’m empty.
Cut off
my veins harden and
shut off
the blood-crusted heart that
once loved.
Look out the window
and ask
will the wind blow
behind glass?
Cut off
I took the cleaver and
shut off
the pins and needles of
your touch.
Dried and cut off
finally alone.
Quiet and shut off
I try to atone
for years
of waste and barren hate.
For fears
I made and could not break.
Is there hope
for a paint-trailing zealot
whose soul was sold
before it developed?
Tie up
my heart strands and
pry up
the dark hands that
I loved.
Whether they are people, entertainment, or hobbies, we all face negative influences from time to time. The longer we spend in or with these things, the more of ourselves we begin to lose. Over time we are sapped, giving up something personal in exchange for something external—which often affects the internal as well. The result is gradual, often to the point that we hardly notice. Sometimes those near to us will notice long before we do. But I believe we each come to a point where we wonder, “how did I get here?” This question comes with two choices: conviction that leads to change or acceptance of who we are becoming.
In this poem, the narrator seems to be reaching that point. As they contemplate their life, the question is being asked. And, even though they decide to take action, change is not easy or immediate. It takes time, sacrifice, and—more often than not—the help of others. But it can be done. Every day, people make the decision to change. They grow sick of their lives and realize that they can do better, that they want to be better no matter how difficult it seems.
If you find yourself in a similar situation, perhaps tired of living a certain way, contemplate change. The first step may not be dramatic, it may be as simple as asking someone for help or working on a habit. But it can and most often does lead to lasting change if the desire for it is present.
You are likely wondering why there is no art with this poem. Unfortunately, we here at Tableau are experiencing difficulties at the facility. As you may know from the Professor’s notes, the capsule has been opened and can no longer be used to create the usual art. We are working to find an alternative solution, but it will take time. Thank you.
Hope Mixes
—The Translator
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