WRITING LEFT HANDED

writing left handed

i once was just like many others

a right hand man of the insidious system

i am a man that you could say bothers

a radical chef of thought with all but one ingredient imprisoned

i once ate emotions without even knowing what they were

and who was i to ask why they tasted funny?

i knew, fishy, they were

but i knew nothing else

i didn’t wish to find out for myself

i didn’t wish to be sung too

or to sing to myself

i wrestled with writing left handed

and I still sometimes write with my right

we are shown that right handed is right

and hell, if you were left handed

around or before the time my grandma was a child

you certainly dealt with discomfort and disarray

simply because you did things in a considerably different way

yet some still do things more efficiently and constructively

with that left-listed hand

and some still succumb to change and pressure

even knowing the grass in left field, for them,

is always greener and Freer

others say we shall all end up in the center

ambidextrous beings, seeing and opening up all possibilities

feeling things with both hands

the world could be an open book

with visceral vacations to find on either side

yet why does there only have to be two sides or any sides at all?

why do we always have to choose between left and right?

is left right?

is right right?

are either right?

i, myself, enjoy a straight forward yes or no question

yet i can’t stand being told to choose

between two hands of the same person

all my life i was only waiting for a moment not unlike this; to fly

or at least to see

waiting for this moment; to be Free

see; i was flying in the dark for far too long

and my wings had grown rapidly weak

yet my eyes adjusted to the light

and my wings seem to have gained strength with each flight

and for that i know that it doesn’t seem to matter to me

whether i use my left hand, my right hand, or my feet to write

it is the intention and reflection that counts

it is the compilation of coinciding thoughts into one

that amounts to immortal greatness

or at least in a few mortals to discuss

we look at writings from millennia ago

as for which hand they used to be immortal

i don't intend to know

unless i'm not speaking of hands at all

i can see with my eyes between the ears that help me hear

but all i know for certain is i and those not hiding behind a curtain of lies

so i will write to contrast like a blackbird to the bluest of skies

and still blend in as a peddle of grass would to a field

until time removes the layers from the cake that consists of crucial meaning

so you can’t find me without being fascinated and Free

and that is no mistake

because what you find for yourself

brings the brain, the heart, and the spirit

the biggest yield

as the horse can be led to water through the field, but not forced to drink

a being can be led to Freedom, but not forced to be Free, only forced to be kn their knees

Freedom never comes with force

but like water is the resulting wish of the horse

beings will always dream of Freedom

the trick is knowing what Freedom is

and often that can be tricky

a lesson for the road

never eat anything that smells fishy

no matter what hand you use

we tend to scarf up everything in our path

laying off what the other path holds

i, myself, enjoy places that wouldn’t dare be called a path

places to find Freedom’s past

and the wrath of natural forces

because however natural we think we are

with every action and force we exuberate

we look ever more so from afar

yet this is our home now and for times to come

so let’s keep it from ending up even more ajar

and i'll keep up with my bizzarre rhymes for Freedom

By: Alex Wyatt