There’s a great wildness within
with no pastures in which to run.
There’s a great sorrow within
with no fields in which to wail.
There’s a river within me
that’s long run dry —
where did the rapids
up and go?
What do I do with wildness
in a concrete jungle?
There are screams that echo
deep in my gut—
whose hand is clasped
over my mouth?
When did ocean
turn to cement?
Who chose Eve
and chained Lilith?
Posted everywhere but here — officially announcing the release of my first book, The Closet Mystic, Volume One! A collection of my poetry, hand-picked from this blog. Click here to purchase!
a cold has syrup. a fever, a reducer. a cough, a lozenge.
what of the spirit?
what of heartache?
poetry, music.
I’m not afraid of my fear,
I let it run through me,
a river, the Styx—
it passes, I remain.
that river, a rush.
Jupiter, Jupiter, Jupiter:
I can feel your heartbeat from here.
a hidden vein of starlight
from your heart
to mine:
through me you thrum.
I am
but a child,
and oh,
the heavens,
they throw me,
they catch me—
they throw me,
they catch me—
i am thrown—
i trust
i’ll be caught.
you know not
the hidden hands that catch those
who take leaps of faith!
so, leap—
amongst the stars,
there’s no bottom,
there’s no falling—
no,
only flying.
you’ve no idea
what is waiting
to pour through you,
pour from you,
if you’d just get out of the way.
you’ve no idea the river—
demolish that dam,
it is your mind.
demolish that dam,
it is your fear.
demolish,
pour.
sometimes,
love’s flame
is a fire that spills forth
as the sky cracks:
dawn’s light.
sometimes,
love’s flame
is a lamp burned.
its oil:
midnight.
love’s labors:
so oft
in those liminal spaces.
the heart’s torch:
the bravest tea light.
this love:
it is a quiet courage.
it has
no hall of fame.
it is
a gift
with no wrapping.
you feed on it—
you cannot see it.
you live on it—
you cannot feel it.
sometimes,
the truest loves
are unspoken,
& unseen,
but lived:
in the shadows.
sit with your sorrow:
it can’t hurt you.
you can.
sit with your fear:
it won’t hurt you.
you can.
sit with yourself.
turn your back?
you’ll stab it.
sit with yourself.
the most basic form of respect:
bearing witness.
sit.
there was a look in your eyes
somehow… dead,
yet more alive
than i thought possible.
it looked like
you stared each of your fears
straight in the eye–
then, snakeskin:
they were shed.
it looked like
all that died
were the bits of you
that kept you from living.
i pray
you’ll keep me around,
if only to teach me how.
empty arms,
empty heart,
mocked
by the ticking clock:
it tallies
every wasted heartbeat.
my body is stone.
this
is waking sleep paralysis.
some unseen demon
sits upon my chest.
i scream at my limbs:
whose hands
are clasped over their ears?
betrayed by all:
even this
still-alive corpse.
some lives are death
long before the coffin—
some are ash
long before the urn—
this,
this is one of them.
THE CLOSET MYSTIC 