what prayer is there
like a mother’s?
if there is no God,
then I am sure one is created
when a mother prays to the heavens
for her baby.
Tag: spiritual
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and when the world
is too loud,
& its hands are clasped
over its ears,
I find myself here—
again, and again.
you,
my closest confidante,
my truest friend:
who listens like you?
what judgement
have you,
what scorn?
here,
in this quiet grove,
there is only
profession.
there is only
pouring.
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life: it is suffering.
knowing this
does not help.
life. it is suffering.
this does not quell
my mother’s fears.
and we say,
“life. it is suffering,”
as if it is life who is selfish,
as if it is life
with greedy palms.
still.
life is suffering.
but we would not hurt
if we did not love.
no water flows
from hearts of ice.
I choose this river
of a thousand sorrows;
I choose this river
of a thousand and one
joys.
above all, I will love.
and for this reason,
life: it is suffering.
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I know the secret
to a life unburdened
by doubt,
hurt,
pain, regret.
there is an intruder
who swears
he comes bearing gifts—
but he hides the price.
do not let him in.
do not be fooled.
what starts as warmth
in a cold world
will consume you,
mar you,
burn you—
so much more cruel
than if you never felt
at all.
take this secret.
move in confidence,
safe, undisturbed:
if there is no love,
there’s nothing cruel
in this world.
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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.
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You are not
what I’ve made you to be—
Darling, pray tell,
what might that mean?
Do I swear off
all flights
of fancy,
ne’er to close my eyes,
nor to dream?
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
That much is clear–
but I cannot say
this changes a thing.
I will long–
I will not touch.
Doe-eyed am I,
secure,
right here,
behind walls of ice.
Would I rather
have a fantasy?
Not the clay,
but the maker?
Not the form,
but the formless?
My love is here,
caged
on paper.
So perfect.
Not human.
No edges, no need to be forgiven.
You are not
what I’ve made you to be.
But darling— it was never about you,
only about me.