where did that boy go?
maybe he hid
under the bed,
a cat waiting years
for the noise to die.
suddenly, silence.
suddenly safe
to rear his head.
so much of the world:
changed.
but that boy?
…
he’s all the same.
Tag: self healing
-
You are alive. You won’t be forever. That is the poem. Why should there be more?
This is your one life. What are you doing with it? Why wait until you’re on the other side to become acquainted with what should have been — with what should have been done? Why weep without reason? Why wait to know?
It is so strange that we can be reminded of our mortality — to read the words, “you won’t be here forever” — and for the reality of our finality to not register.
Why should the poet labor? Why should the artist toil over illustrations and visualizations of what it might be like for that final day to come — for you to be laying on your deathbed, confronted with the end? Choking on words unspoken. Drowning in potential never realized. Like a sun buried beneath the horizon who never got to rise.
Why do the metaphors need to be shoved down our throats for us to get a clue that we won’t be here forever? No. We will not. So why do we wake up each morning without ever really waking up? Sleepwalking through each and every day. Rinse and repeat. Why do we not drink in our aliveness?
Who among us can truly say that, if time is money, they’ve invested every penny beautifully, wisely? Why do we squander the only true currency?
This life is all we’ve ever known. We don’t remember a before. How can I even think about it now? I don’t remember the beginning — forgive me if I don’t have a good sense of the end. But you must. You must think of death as your worst enemy and your greatest friend. And you must rage — rage against him, fight each and every day, that you may live to the full.
Truthfully, do I tell you, that when the Reaper comes, it will not be with a scythe. No, it will be with kindness in his eyes. You will take his hand. He will take yours. You’ll be ready to bid this earth goodbye. Unburdened by regret. Unburdened by what ifs, because you truly lived.
There is no rest for one who carries questions to their grave. Ask them now. Ask all of your questions now. Get every what if and what then out of your system. Spend your entire life asking and answering.
They say in death, all answers are revealed. I don’t think that’s true. I think in death, all questions are revealed. Did I live truly? Did I live honestly? Did I love kindly? Were my years wasted — and if so, how many?
Again, I remind you: time is our currency. Do not waste a penny.
-
irrational poets
who call nature their home,
and write love letters
to the earth—
i’m one of them.
irrational poets,
claiming the heart is the cipher
to the hidden language of the trees—
I’m one of them.
yeah, I’m one of them.
irrational.
mad, foolish.
i’m all these things and more.
i talk to the Moon— she talks back.
i march not
to the beat of my own drum.
i gave that up.
the earth’s heart is enough,
her hidden song
which permeates all.
i hear it— oh, i hear it,
& i cannot help
but sing along.
brick and mortar:
i cannot call it home.
but my feet know the feel,
& my gut is a terrible liar.
it knows god’s chapel
is home. have you seen
its diamond-specked ceiling?
have you sat in its pews
of willows and daisies?
have you heard the choir
of blue jays and mockingbirds?
do you hear the sermon
in the winds?
have you shed your burdens
in confession, whispered your secrets
to the mountains,
and let yourself be forgiven
in the silence?
god’s green chapel
is a holy place.
yeah—
i’m one of those irrational poets
who call it home.
-
the doctor told me it’s depression—
clinical, “major.”
what a strange name,
“major.”
so quietly
did it siphon the life from me.
I could hardly tell its fangs
were in my neck—
he is a thief
with sleight of hand,
collecting
precious moments for sport.
I imagine
he has a shelf in his home—
snippets of time
pickpocketed.
my birthdays in globes.
hold one close:
candle light, dancing shadows,
and a smile
that does not reach the eyes.
I’m not there,
no—
where was I?
-
when did I trade living
for surviving?
& when did I mistake
slowly dying
for “thriving”?
having it together
looks like a closed heart.
but oh,
the openness of being a mess.
unclench your fists, your jaw—
dance
while cutting tomatoes.
and,
if you cry,
because you remember what it means
to be alive—
call them onions.
i won’t tell.
-
I stared at the cliff’s edge,
and told myself
I was only going to dip
my feet in—
so tell me:
how am I up to my neck
in absinthe?
lord, help me:
I’m drowning
in obsession,
this liquid spirit,
like the Styx,
my psychic murk,
so acidic—
it burns me, it burns—
so why
do I crave it?
the self betrayal
of the poet.
radio silence,
the artist
gone quiet.
shut your mouth,
keep the food out,
but your words
in.
how quickly
did I jump ship—
haven’t written
a poem
in months.
did i dry the well?
it’s not hard
to tell:
gaunt eyes,
hollow shell.
I stopped looking
to the future.
instead of planning
my career,
fawning
over that
bright star,
I thought more
of how to fit
400 calories
into a single dinner.
a blessing
to choose
to eat less.
a blessing
to fret
over weighing more.
a blessing
to know this folly.
i will fall
into this trap again:
still,
i consider myself blessed.
I’m not a fraud.
I never lied once—
I fell, & fell hard,
but never hid the blood.
I saw the sickness
spreading through my marrow–
the blackest ink
in the most pristine waters—
I worked so hard,
& guarded this meadow
of my own making—
I tended to the Earth
& nursed her back to health,
so tell me: for bringing ruin
to my Eden,
how can I ever
forgive myself?
tonight,
i say enough.
binge, restrict:
the coin of self-loathing.
but my life is bigger
than being bigger.
isn’t that self love?
yea—
tonight, i say enough.
i
am enough.