I am not a transcendentalist 
No matter how hard I try to appreciate 
The golden shifts of the autumn leaves
Or the aggression of tides that scream into my ear drums 
In shapes of my deceased grandfather’s voice 

But I find trails of solemnity in my room
How terribly I had placed a useless lamp 
In pitiful attempts to shed a bit of light inside
Or the decorations I plastered on
Above the head of my bed when 
 

I somehow decided 
I wished to be more mediocre and less abnormal 
When attention was the oxygen I had breathed
 

But most importantly 
Me and my forbidden presence 
And its witness to my faint happiness 
 

Or surprisingly how many times I am able 
To yell “fuck” in a short five minutes 
Which I still believe 
Is a gifted talent
And even secluded from Mother Nature, herself
 

A temple of my own ruins