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meditation over my death

I feel like I am opening up even when I am closed

I feel that my words are falling on deaf ears even when I am silent

I feel every part of me is disintegrating with each passing moment

I feel I am becoming my own nightmares, and dropping my organs off cliffs one by one

Destroying my own body, which is only a shell, only a case for who I really am

Bleeding my own blood, which is only a paint which etches my pain into other surfaces

Constricting my own veins; I am my downfall

I am immortal until I agree to succumb to otherworldly forces

I often do not feel I am the same as other creatures, and lively beings, on this earth

I often wonder what happenstance combination of atoms and matter created so provocative a being

How thoughts rose from lifelessness, and how my revolution will cease the same way it started

How one of these days I will meet you all in the grave, although I never wanted to be in the ground

I wanted to decompose, I wanted to biodegrade, I wanted to fertilize the soil of someone who can continue the dream I once had

I wondered when the instant of my termination would arise, and how I would grapple with its reality

Now I don’t.

I have accepted everything that happens to me as happening precisely the way it should

I am living and dying at precisely the same time

I reek of both desolation and ecstasy

I am embodied by nothing; there is no single word, or symbol, or parameter that could contain the fragments of my soul, strewn about they are inside of me

The place in which I reside can be inhabited by no more than one. With one it already faces the danger of overpopulation

Too much happens here, and none of it is reported

Sometimes I believe I am living the most interesting life to have been lived

Sometimes I stop everything for a moment to bow my head in silence,

Breathing in the essence of exactly who I am.

It’s been twenty-one years and I still can’t put my finger on it.

 

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poetry · self help · society · support · Uncategorized

detaching

I wanted to be the sad poet but I couldn’t handle it anymore
This drowning myself with my own grief
This taking every weight upon my back like it was mine to carry
Like finally crossing the finish line would amount to anything but my own demise
Making art from pain is healing
But only making art that hurts is a form of suicide
I was destroying myself for the greater good
Sacrificing my innards for the sake of art and what beauty it brings forth
But all I ever caused was the release of more pain, urging these tortured artists to keep being complicit in their own suffering.
I can’t stand by idle as my body degrades and my soul tears off a piece every day
No piece can justify my death
No lived experience is worth re-living, if it brings me to my knees and drags me closer to the ground
Where I convinced myself I belonged, amongst the insects and the roots that ground to the earth more beautiful things than me
Does any artist realize how important they are?
How humans need art, to revolve around, to live in the shadows of, to bow to and to be taught to surrender?
Does any artist allow themself to detach from their art?
To measure their self-worth in other ways, like their positive interactions with friends who don’t read their works but care about their journey
I’ve been read by some and not read by many
I’ve been read by myself the most, by far
I’ve been torn apart and fallen back together, naturally. Like the creation and destruction of the seasons.
It’s a cycle.
But I must liberate myself before my passion becomes my vice.
Before my oasis becomes my prison and my words become my weapons.
I am powerful, whether I harness this searing energy or not. I can create just by being, who I am, where I am, at this very moment and taking a step back to breathe in what I’ve made and assess if it is what i need to move forward on a path that speaks of progress
And not burying myself in a wealth of trauma,
I said poetry was my lifeblood and it very much still is
I said I give birth to poems, the only children I’ll ever have
I hung onto my own words-
And hung myself
I sacrificed myself for my children.
But poetry cannot be the end for me it is merely a place to mark my words and I can’t keep moving forward if I keep recording and re-reading the past like my obsession. I have more to offer. There’s more to hope for then turning pain into beauty.                                                                                                                             Sometimes pain isn’t beauty.                                                                                                   It’s just pain.

poetry · Uncategorized

I, too, am human

I surrounded myself with souls who have bodies and found my borders within their territories
Knowing a person is traversing the map of a soul
I poured myself into our conversation, letting you know through eye contact, listening
that I acknowledge your aching existence
And I left my body for a moment
And saw us all, sitting around, bringing energies to each other, begging and pleading for someone to recognize that we were there
And I poured myself into your body to fill you up in all the places you were left alone
And I felt you doing the same
And in that unspoken devotion to a human I had yet to know on a deep level
I felt the depth of your being
Locked eyes, reminded you we are connected and deep down we know that
That you are magical evidence of the living spirit
And I am breathing back to you,
Echoing the sentiment in my own words.
Remembering, I, too, am human
And in this moment we are meant to cross paths
Celebrating that with a farewell
As sensible humans learn to do.

poetry · Uncategorized

always thinking about the next thing

I called you a friend
My name in your hand
Our words in our throats
Burning our tongues
Waiting our turns to speak our dreams
Tripping over ourselves and spitting our fears again
Here we are again
Talking about the next thing
Putting our hopes where are hearts are
And digging our organs out to make room
The flowers inside of me are both alive and dead
I remember everything we said with uncertainty
Forecasting a future we would never understand
Digging our claws into the earth and preparing for the next strange occurrence
Like leaving each other’s lives
I hope everything you imagined was wrong and you’ve grown in that
And you still think about the next thing and the next after that
poetry · Uncategorized

repackaged and repurposed

I’m not sure what I look like or who I am or what makes me happy other than making everyone else happy
It hit me
It really hit me
Would I say no to something I know would make you happy?
No,
I wouldn’t.
I’d say yes like I’ve practiced saying yes for the past sixteen years of my life, pushing aside my needs for your own.
Forming my own personality that doesn’t revolve around bending your needs and filling you with energy.
Where’s my energy?
No one has filled me because I’ve been gone too long to fill myself and no one has learned to think of me as their human friend- imperfect- rather than a robot who performs precisely how they want.
Are you sad? I will comfort you.
Are you happy? I will cheer with you.
I don’t understand my emotions without these cues that remind me I’m only of use if I can bend over and give them what they want.
I always give them what they want
Maybe because I’ve felt the sting of disappointment too many times to wish it on anyone else, even the ones who truly don’t deserve the energy I provide them.
What have they done to earn it?
And when they’re done, I’m disposed of, having fulfilled my only purpose in life- being a vehicle for the satisfaction of other humans. My soul is made up of other souls. I’m no original content. I’ve been repackaged and repurposed and I’m ready to get hurt again. I’m ready to sacrifice myself for you.

poetry · Uncategorized

if it’s meant to happen, it happens

What do you think is going to happen that isn’t meant to happen?
Don’t you think if my love for a stranger destroys my love for you there was never anything to destroy?
Don’t you know the nature of first words, and first loves?
And first worlds-
And this bed we make together is our own
And our heads falling together is my home even if I spend my day with someone who isn’t you and doesn’t say the things you say?
Wouldn’t that be okay?
If you just gave me a little space to walk away and tell myself these strangers are not you.
Whether that’s for better or worse,
Whether you’ll love me for better or worse
Whether you’ll wait for me to gather my love for you like frozen flowers beneath the Michigan snow.
It will take me time to realize all that you are offering me with your breath, and your eyes, and your intertwined palm in mine
I will have to collect my thoughts each time we say goodbye until I decide if I’ll ever want to say it for the last time
Because it’s impossible to know-
Isn’t it?
And if you know, I’m sorry
I’m sorry I break you with my every wavering inch
My questioning and inquiring about other souls
Is there a milder crime I could commit than give myself the chance to know who else is out there?
We didn’t sign a contract simply by loving
I haven’t signed myself away to one single love yet so let’s not prematurely end our curiosity and youth and surrender ourselves to the norms of living together and dying together even if we no longer serve each other
Do I serve you as a spotlight to your own glory?
Because you do that for me,
And it is precisely this:
Your investment in how I end up at the end of everything
That makes me hold myself to this commitment
To not assume what’s here is right
Or what’s now is only
To know if we can be happier, we should be
And that’s nothing against your brilliance
It’s everything supporting it
And I wish I had your resilience
Of loving without knowing
I wish we both knew that we would be in good hands- whether our own, or each other’s, or someone new- a budding possibility.
And what’s the probability I won’t sleep if I meet someone who makes me flutter like you make me?
Highly likely-
I’ll be lost,
Where I started
Stuck between only me and myself.