Insecurity

My hell

is wondering, 

in a loud discordant unforgiving loop,

   Is it my sadness that keeps you tethered? 

What penitence or cure

can silence a mind

gifted at inferiority-driven psychic flagellation?

Permission to Let Go

I observed a trail of freckles on your skin

markings of age, time, and wisdom.

Twin'd stars displaying your preordained path to the heavens.

Resting in fetal repose

you seemed to wait for permission

to chase the stars.  

It's ok, Daddy

let go

I'll be ok. 

A Stranger's Funeral

Today, I attended a stranger's funeral

because I couldn't face yours.

There were no pictures, no videos,

nor familiar faces

to intrude or tug.

Sitting in the back pew,

alone and solemn,

I felt strangely liberated

to mourn you.

without absorbing the spectacle. 

Taking a Moment to Acknowledge Beauty Amongst the Grey

Imagine clouds in the sky

no, not big white puffy clouds floating

pompously on a static blue mat.

Imagine these more like

wispy clouds, whimsical, and peaceful

milk, gently stirred in a blue porcelain cup of rich black tea

Think soft hues of pink, purple, and orange

touched by the wind

with a gently waving tail tinged with blues and greens

and early stars peaking through 

way up there in the blue.

Yeah... 

that was the sky today. 

We Are the Gatekeepers of Our Creativity

You planted the seed

that grew into the Oak

that became the hanging tree.

you stole the land and the fruits of our labors

our minds, bodies and souls

claimed our heritage as your own and remade our gods in your image.

And now, hundreds of years later

while our bone deep scars remain raw

you have the audacity to cry out against "gatekeeping"

We reclaim what was stolen

Our modern rhythms

in tune with the thrumming sound of the blood and moans of our ancestors

are not for you. 

Our battle cries, hakas, and revolutionary hymns

are not for you.

We hereby turn off the spigot.

that tortured teat

from which you commoditized our existence.

Pimp out your own

we quit. 

Clay

If only the word itself, "clay"

could be used to form

the intent of one's written thoughts.

to be so easily molded and shaped

to glory in the slippery, mailable feel of function and form

between practiced fingers

while imagining we are gods. 

Unlike stoic and unforgiving pen and ink

where we are bound

anchored, and moored

by means, dimension, and tongue.

A Slippery Thought

While I'm reading

I'm often distracted by a curiosity.

Examining myself while in the act

I try to determine whether I

simply read the words,

picture the words,

or do I see the scene conjured by them?

        how do i know it's not any, some, or none of these?

Shhhh!  I can't hear myself think! 

Beautiful Spectrums

Well shit... on the spectrum.

I should have known

maybe I did.

All the years of feeling other

imposter syndrome

acting a part, stepping in it, and failing miserably;

always being misunderstood.

misunderstandings, mistranslations, and miss iterations,

but at the end of the day

now I know. 

It all makes sense

the overwhelming confused mass of guilt and 

unnamed shame makes sense now.

I am relived

truth be told

and impressed, that I've accomplished so much,

while not knowing. 

Which is the blessing?

the knowing or not knowing?

 

But then I think to myself

I love learning

I know what it is to love and be loved

I am accomplished and growing

I am as the universe made me

imperfectly perfect

perfectly made for me

and I am enough.