Soul pieces

I’m serving you pieces of my soul
And your shrugged thank yous
Feel more like slaps in the face,
Salt to go into the wounds
I so willingly inflict on myself.
But it’s ok. Souls are organic.
Like plants, cutting little pieces
Only makes more flowers grow,
So maybe I’m keeping my heart open
For the completely wrong person,
But it makes so little difference.
The only right person is myself.
I can keep shouting all the wishes
Of what you should do for me
But, like the rules of genies,
The universe seems deaf to those,
So I’d rather wish you well instead,
And make sure there’s enough
Goodness to go around, and hopefully
It will somehow come to touch me too.
Take all the pieces you want,
And some of those you don’t want too.
I have enough to keep regrowing,
Reborn into the person I want to be.

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Healing time

It’s said that time heals all wounds,
But it’s not time that does the healing, is it?
Time is just a necessary catalyst.
It’s like saying that fire boils water.
Fire is definitely needed in the process,
But I’m yet to see a fire start, look around,
See a pot of a water and spring to boil it.
Time is just an instrument we yield,
And healing comes from our skill in yielding it.
Time wouldn’t mend bones that you keep breaking,
Wouldn’t fix you if you don’t set them first,
So why would our souls be any different?
I think I didn’t quite understand the saying,
I think people misunderstand it every day,
Because it’s not about how much time passes,
It’s about whether you use it to make things right
Or if you keep making those mistakes,
And if your mistakes are meant to cross out
All the wrong choices until you find the right one
Or if you just become proficient at making mistakes.
Time is just the instrument.
We’re the ones who heal ourselves.

Daily writing

I have written now for a while,
Day after day without pause.
I always knew that writing
Was to the cup that held my soul
The bowl that would capture the spills
And feed back into the waterfall
To keep me spinning the wheel.
But daily writing is something else,
There’s a special freedom to it,
A quality to the mere quantity.
Instead of worrying for a subject,
After a while, this has become
Just sitting down to compose
And letting my mind hook
Onto the most relevant topic.
Every day, it gets to choose
One thing to purge away from me,
Or one beautiful thought to share.
And I end up lighter of worries
And fuller of brighter things,
My poems prayers to the universe,
A grounding I have missed.
I think I forgot how this goes before,
Because it’s not about talent,
It’s not even about creativity.
It’s the simple joy of writing,
The primordial feeling
Of letting go and floating
In the amniotic fluid of your choice.
It’s just about freedom.

The Light

I saw this prompt (https://sarainlalaland.com/2018/04/14/i-challenge-you/) some time ago that sparked my imagination, but, especially with the A-to-Z challenge, it took me forever to find the time to actually write the idea down. So, apologizing for the delay, here it is now:

There was a window with the light switched on
Day and night, bright light shone out.
There could have been so many reasons,
Some happy, some hopeful, some gruesome,
A forgetful spouse leaving on holiday,
A light to guide someone’s way home,
A sudden death advertised by dark irony.
It was none of those reasons though.
Because, you see, the window was not a window,
And the light didn’t come from within at all.
The window was just a clever little mirror,
Turning on lookers the inside of their soul.
So tell me again, how bright did you say
You saw the light in the window?

Self-ful

You are not selfish.
It is not selfish to know what you think,
What you want and how to achieve it
And then act accordingly.
It is not selfish to choose yourself
Over what people want from you, of you,
Not selfish to respect yourself enough
To use the only life you’ll ever be given
To make peace for yourself.

You are not selfless.
It is not selfless to know what you think,
What you believe and how to stand by it
And then act accordingly.
It is not selfless to help others
If that is the standard you hold yourself to,
Not selfless to respect yourself enough
To use the only life you’ll ever be given
To turn your life meaningful.

You are self-ful.
You are your self and aware of it
Irrespective of the world around you.
You are the colours you paint yourself,
Choose the pigments that go into you
And the lines that are drawn out of you,
Not mindlessly soak whatever comes your way.
You are a calm eye looking inward,
Around which rages a chaotic storm.
You are an unchanged transition,
Self-determined, self-defined.
It’s an impossible concept for weaker people
So they try to label you in pitiful confusion,
Not comprehending how you can be
Both and neither, everything and nothing.
Not that you care.
You are too full of self
To need anyone else’s opinion.

Obsession

It’s said that all creative minds
Entertain multiple representations of all things –
That’s the only way to give birth to unique perspectives,
Having random things bubble and mix and blow up
In an array of colours and metaphors.
The minds of artists have voices recounting truths, realities,
That their imagination then compounds on, shoots out from,
In ever more complicated fantasies.
There are also voices whose sole purpose is to keep track
Of which voice does what, of inner workings, and make sure that
Fantasies land on paper, in stories, paintings, sculptures,
And they don’t interfere with function in the real world.
There are times, however, when the real world is ugly,
So you tighten the fantasies around you,
Breathe them in, burrow in their warmth and security,
And shut down the voices telling you it’s wrong.
It might be surprising, that something as slippery as obsession
Starts with a conscious decision. But it does.
Like going down a slide, you need an impulse to get it started.
You need to choose to shut down the realities,
And you ignore that aching awareness sounding an alarm.
You pick and choose. You only hear the nice fantasies.
And, with no other raw material, your mind doubles them up,
Compounds on them instead of tempering them down.
It becomes a self-fulfilling spiral of quicksand,
Creating just enough satisfaction by its mere existence
To keep itself going. It’s overwhelmingly much,
Yet it’s achingly little, making you throw yourself desperately
Over unrealistic things, trying to soothe the growing need.
It’s painful, yet when the world delivers, my…
There’s no bliss quite as strong as feeling the worlds collide,
Sending the shock waves of the contact down your soul.
So you throw yourself harder down the next spiral.
It’s just a mistake, you see. A coping mechanism gone wrong
Though can you even claim it is wrong if it does its job?
Because it does tie you over the rough patch,
Your mind so full with your fantasies it’s numb to pain.
Sometimes, when you’re paying enough attention to the process
You can even trick it into becoming an absurd motivation
That walks you up the hill you so happily slid down before.
And when you’re strong enough, you can always disengage,
Get to your feet, breathe out the quicksand,
Shake the clingy bits of obsessions off you
And convince yourself you’ve got everything handled.
This, of course, until the next long stairway
To the bottom of the ravine we call life…
When you are more than happy to push yourself down the next slide.

Naked

She’s not a person you’d look at twice,
Were you to glimpse her going down the street.
It’s only her eyes that are dangerous,
And what happens when you strip her naked,
Letting the wild soul underneath breathe.
She’s fearless in only her skin,
The clothes a role too small for her to fit.
Her skin fits her not like a tailored suit,
Not something beautiful you’re afraid to spoil,
But like the things that grow with you
Until they become soft and comfortable,
That stretch to contain your curves
And toughen around your sharp edges.
She’s the kind of creature for whom
The clothes, the rules, the world,
Are an unwelcome constraint she can do without.
Anybody would, when they are so unnecessary.
She needs nothing other than herself –
She needs no weapons. She is a weapon,
Forged in the fire of a thousand suns.
She needs no cover. The universe is her cover,
Human eyes too feeble to perceive her.
She’s the kind of woman in whose arms you go
Looking for the meaning of God,
But remain for having found a goddess instead.
Don’t be fooled. Her hips are a beautiful lure,
The arms around you springing a hidden trap,
The lips honeyed only to hide the poison.
You can bleed to death cut on her sharp tongue,
And even worse on her sharper mind.
It’s a relief she’s this mythical creature
Only when her skin and soul are bare.
You’re safe if only you don’t look then
In the beautiful abyss of her hypnotic eyes.
So what are you waiting for? We both know
You can’t wait to see her naked soul.