I feel sometimes that I've lived my life in secret.
An apathetic, or was it anesthetized instrument
peering through the blinds at the better lives of others.
I am, at most, a lost connection,
a weary and bewildered traveler,
a peddler of listlessness.
A woman caught unawares,
carried away in a bliss of male ego and scorn--
a girl who landed, somehow unfazed, and yet
less ripe, less eager for change.
These stolen moments are twofold:
ever my pride and my demise,
a pitiless craving that irks and corrodes
yet tastes so sweet.
My skin is hot, my hands are bitter and open.
All I ever wanted was to live through every promise
but we've kept them vague and misty eyed,
for secretly, we know
they are fleeting.
They are more precious than gold.
And we were meant to be poor.
Strong piece, and for obvious reason, it felt very personal. I can imagine the speaker whispering this poem in my ear, or reading this as if it were a letter writting for me (and the world) alone, sent to each individual.
The opening stanzas reminded me of a Mary Oliver stanza, where she mentioned that she drove past a random, and nameless town, and she imagined dying there. This poem provoked that sense of loneliness. Not for being alone, but for not fulfilling our true selves, for being trapped inside a dictated society telling us who we should be, what we should influence ourselves with, (not to mention what we should buy and watch, etc). We all have our own individuality, but more often than not we are leaned to ignore them, or worse, forget them at all.
Powerful piece, could improve the early stanzas by with the use of your usual figures of speech but I think this was meant to be simple. Sometimes the simple things are what attracts the observant's eye.