Friday, April 18, 2014

The Professor - 4/18/13

Professor.
I thought myself to be a professor of love,
As in: someone professing it to another.
You were the professor, however.
Teaching a young brother. 
Showing me things...
Holding a mirror to my flaws,
Filing down my claws with constant applause,
Positivity parrying my negative propensities with nary a pause.
Never straying from staying down for the cause. 
Committed to growth.
Unyielding, unrelenting.
From having fun to venting,
Giving love, showing love,
Teaching love, knowing love,
All without dissenting. 
True presence of the something I'd been missing.
Just as open to talk, as you are to stop and listen.
Professor.
I thought myself to be a professor of love,
As in: someone professing it to the world.
Her? 
Why yes, that's my girl. 
Boasting loudly, proudly.
Writing odes and such,
Feeling a certain way and saying as much,
Putting it out there for the world to see.
Telling the world how happy you made me.
However...you said far more with no words.
Expressions coming from a great place with great haste.
Speaking directly to the soul.
Anthologies of affection told through your actions;
Library of love in your heart.
Apparent from the start.
Rather than put on for the world, 
You focused on playing your part.
A leading lady destined to be a star.
Type of lover desired near and far,
Forever giving effort above and beyond par.
All because you love with everything you are.
Professor. 
I thought myself to be a professor of love,
As in, someone professing it to you.
Expressing feelings that were true...
Feelings that came from a place deeper than I knew.
Similes? I had a slew.
Metaphors too. 
However,
Not even a plethora of poetry could describe it. 
The delighted, excited, ignited, incited.
It was an unexpected occurrence...
And I didn't know how to make it flourish,
How to fuel it. 
You did though, 
And you did it so effortlessly that I felt foolish. 
Saw love, saw how it illuminates what the truth is.
Professor. 
I thought myself to be a professor of love,
As in: someone that really knew about it. 
However, 
I became a student of yours,
And there was nothing I could do about it.
To tell the truth about it,
I don't know what I'd do without it.
The fire you lit still burns,
A sign of true lessons, life lessons, learned.
I appreciate her for making me better.
Bless her, the Professor. 

-A. Lewis

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Of Dreams, at Dawn - 4/2/14

Where do the dreams go? The ambitions we form in adolescence...the anticipation of adulthood...how do they get lost in translation? Do they die from suffocation? There is pressure to succeed, to accomplish as much as possible; to matriculate, graduate, assimilate, participate, innovate, generate. Start a family, buy a home, renovate. Just don't be a degenerate. Is that too much to heap on ideas that are innocent? Innocuous ideas of an imaginative mind, suffocated by the expectations of society; deemed immature and irresponsible by incontinent individuals incapable of achieving intimate introspection. Is that what happens, or is there more to it? Do the dreams disappear? Fading out of perspective as the "real world" becomes a very clear picture in the meantime? Does Father Time wrest those ideas away from us to clear our minds of clutter, or is he stealing from us the very thoughts that make our hopes flutter? It sometimes seems that we never had them to begin with...there are times when they're so far out of reach that it seems that we've lost touch with the fabric of reality. However, that very same feeling can be as comforting as wool, a warm reminder that success will require a rise to the occasion. Everyone needs some form of motivation. Dreams seem to ripen quickly, yet rot very slowly. They can be hard to pick when there's a lot to choose from, and indecision leads to poor commitments, which can leave us feeling lowly. Others expect us to act boldly, yet when actions don't pan out, they criticize coldly. Is it inaction that results in plans becoming moldy? Discarding dreams after a duration of indistinct determination can be demeaning, despite never being too confident in one direction, but universally leaning. It seems that dreams yearn for interpretation while we search for meaning. Maybe if we understood our desires, we'd learn about ourselves. Instead, we go out looking for ways to define who we are. Cruising around, wasting the gas in the tank. Diving for a ship that never sank. The ambitions we form in adolescence...the anticipation of adulthood...how do they get lost in translation? They get lost when we presume a transition to be a transformation. We attempt to change so that we may grow, not knowing that change is meant to be the result of growth. Providence finds those who remain true to themselves from the start. Where do the dreams go? Should they slip from our minds, they live on in our hearts, always insuring that our inspiration and dedication are never too far apart.

-A. Lewis