I know this is my own fault most of the time.
I should hold my tongue, be observant, never bold
but I want to throw a fit right now and scream and shout
and not be told to toughen up.
I won't let the world make me hard or steal my sweetness
and oh it tries and it tests and it almost wins me over but
I still think it's beautiful.
When I am the passenger in an 80s Benz
watching life, the world, the road go by.
It's mostly trees, signs, fields.
It's all the same but it's peaceful.
It isn't boastful.
I am the air and the wind and the clouds
where I never would imagine being here now.
I don't want a discussion I just want to move through feeling.
There's nothing left to surprise me with.
That burning, red cheek sensation fails me;
an attractive boy or girl reading your favourite book about
mental health issues and fickle romances.
It all looks better on paper but
nobody likes to write it down.
It's a common problem, this decade,
You can never say what you would have said
once upon a time.
Nitpicks: None. Good grammar and spelling and nothing was awkward. This is unusual. :)
It's slightly cryptic, meaning that it hints at a number of things without establishing enough of a center to pull it all together, at least not at first glance, and not to an outsider. Through much of the poem you use poetic phrasing and construction to create certain feels and messages during certain moments, much like some of my own poems. I like that.
The end is what I have the most trouble deciphering a precise meaning from. I can't figure out if you're asserting that the art of writing is in decline, that while we are constantly connected we never truly communicate anymore, or if you mean something more specific that we don't say anymore. Maybe you simply mean, going back to the car-and-scenery metaphor, that life is not so much like a storybook because we keep so much within ourselves. Only you know!