Matt Carlton

Published: November 24th, 2014

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My name is Matthew Carlton and I am a journalism student at Columbia College Chicago. I have been writing for about two years. I find a lot of inspiration from poets like Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Rimbaud, Walt Whitman, and Bob Kaufman. I love jazz and folk music and I play guitar in a blues band called Guffaw.
 This poem is a coming of age poem that deals with my past experiences that I believe helped me grow into the person I am today. This piece captures every moment of fear that I experienced growing up whether it manifested from family troubles, questions of self-image and self-worth, or existential ignorance.

My

When will it no longer hurt to drive through the town in which I learned to walk and cry
and not feel the need to pul over and curse the moon for not telling me the true nature
of madness that paces through my head telling me to give a damn?

When will I be able to feel the sun dig into my cheekbones and strangers laughter tip-toe
into my eyes without being reminded of my dream to replace the ocean with kerosine
set fire to a boat
and sail out to sea?

Jack Kerouac visions of heaven spin and nod in and out of my thoughts and keep me up at night
and as these junk filled dreams wrap up my soul 
the grass stained blood white angel sits on my knees and I curse her lung for working
for being so vain.
But I find temporary peace in the shattered remains of her porcelain statue
as I stain the carpet red and watch the blonde hair start to melt.

I have sat out in the gutter trying to glue those broken shards into some kind of reality.
Every time it ends with stitches.

Damn my beloved conscience.
It has walked me through the deepest of hells that I could never imagine to exist behind
my own eyes.
It sat with me on the steps of my grandfathers funeral
patting my back it told me to stop crying and to just open my eyes.
And to this day I cannot look at a sunset
or  a sunrise
or a rainbow after a heavy rain
without these watercolor visions reminding me that nothing is perfect.
It all drips off the page.

It put cigarettes out in my ears causing me to ignore 
every word
every sound
and every silence.

But now I am listening.
Damn my beloved conscience.
I love my dammed                          self.