Writing

I used to have a purpose here.

Words would open,

and people would step inside them.

Photos would breathe,

and someone would stop to look.

Now it feels like I’m slipping—

here,

The Washington Monument, Mt. Rushmore — these places were the pride and pinnacle of what America should’ve been.

I wish I could see the world like a puzzle

with each piece

having one

rightful

place.

But there is far too much 

idealist romantic

in me 

for that to be the case.

I think

The East Wind is a rabbi in a darkened shul. He sits pored over the Torah scroll long into the night, his back bent like a cane. People come and go and come again, whispering prayers for the needy, the hungry, the sick.

You get older

nothing gets easier.

Everything only gets worse.

I have mountains of expectations

over fourteen years of my life

it feels like so much

it's so little

Every time I open my eyes I see a different world staring back at me. 

Sometimes it’s beautiful. 

Sometimes I hate it. 

Lately, I've seen more hate than love.