Fleeting Desires, a poem

Since I was a child, I may not have known it in words, but I knew it in my soul (even though I might have not even known what a soul was, too.)  If there was something I wanted to keep alive or keep in my memory, I wrote it down.  And now all my imaginings, or rather most of them, have been preserved, and as I look through them, I can’t believe how much of a different person I was when I was a child compared to who I am now.

Yes.  A person.  There’s that much of a disconnect between the childhood me, the middle school me, even a bit of the high school me.  I feel like a glass barrier has been put between myself and who I was in the past: I can look, but I can no longer touch.

Though I’m not completely disconnected.  I’m pursuing an English major.  Writing is still a huge part of my life.  Yet, with that comes all of the piles of paper I carry with me.  Like books or things I happen to write down on a notecard.  Or things that I have no use for now, even though they have nice comments on them, and I keep them around because they make me feel nice.  I had the urge today to throw out some of my papery things and other clutter (or at the very least, put them in garbage bags.)  I’ve still got a lot more to go in terms of really being free of some of this stuff.  But looking back at some of my old stuff like toys or junk that’s lying around—keychains, magnets, etc.—the phrase “fleeting desires” came into my head.

And thus, I wrote this poem.

NOTE: * indicates a space between the stanzas.

Tiny fingers

Crushing flower stems

Ants along your arm



Fade back

Into the grass


Home, inside.

Safe, stuffed.

Coddled, weaned.

Keep, dispose.


What once was charming

Is now fleeting.

Your childhood, your friends, your vicarious projects.

Crayon sticks to ink, sticks closely.


Large hand?

No.  Still tiny.

Still reaching.

Still asking.


But not crushing.


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