anything can be poetry if you're brave enough.
there is only one answer:
surrender.
do not try to outrun it—
you only waste your breath.
do not cover it up—
you only compound it.
there is only one answer:
feel it.
feel it in all its senselessness,
in all its depth and fury.
once you have surrendered
to your one and only master
you are slave to nothing else.
sometimes we are lost in questions
which is to be lost in things unlived.
ghosts of the past, no longer alive
or ghosts of the future, not yet in form.
but we may make use of lifeless thoughts.
we may recognize the fear in them
and where there is fear
there is the chance to face it.
there will always be the question of giving in.
of loss
death
or any number of misfortunes.
but the choice to face fear anyway
is the end of lifelessness
and listlessness.
each breath you take may be a question:
do I have the strength?
the answer:
as long as you’re breathing
you do.
Because it is.
That’s why.
This is the life you were given.
It has meaning simply because it exists.
Don’t run from it.
Face it.
Face the ugly parts,
the beautiful parts,
and especially the parts
that are beautiful and ugly at the same time.
Don’t try to reason with it.
Life does what it wants.
It won’t ask for your opinion,
and worrying won’t alter its course.
Life chooses us.
Our own choice lies in response, not in circumstance.
There is comfort in realizing you don’t have to orchestrate it all.
Given time, most things take care of themselves.
When we feel we have been denied something,
we miss what we have been given.
Honor:
the wound, not the victimhood;
the emotions, not the drama;
the pain, not the resistance to it.
Your coordinates in time and space are merely a starting point.
More important than what you make of it
is how you allow it to move you;
what you allow to bridge the gap
between form and possibility.
your creations become something altogether different
once you expose them to air.
they oxidize
if you will
like blue blood turns red
when it breaches the skin
or reel of film blooms
in a dark room.
when your inner life is brought
to the light of day you are no longer
in control of what
it will become.
it no longer belongs to you.
you have relinquished ownership.
suddenly
it belongs to everyone
& transforms into something
unrecognizable.
it is natural to fear this process
if we consider the act of creation sufficient
in an of itself
but the truth is this is only
the first step.
we must have a sacred space
to expose our beloved creations
to the light so they may become
what they were meant to be.
they must enter the second phase:
surrender.
Be at peace
dear child:
the monsters you dream of
you have already met
and your most dreaded fear
you have already faced.
i prayed
& asked ‘what am i to do’–
She gave me a stone
in my chest firm
& undeniable.
She said
I give you your Will.
your Will is yours
& yours alone--
in Me
you know where to go
for I have taught you
to read maps
I have taught you
navigation.
isn't this why
you are called here, after all?
for no matter where you go
you have your own Will to return to.
it will not waver
in storm or sea
it will not tumble
to the four winds
it will not be shaken
by the cares of the world.
listen to your truth.
don't you know
the music of its voice by now?
hasn't the world shown you hunger?
haven't you scavenged for morsels
the forests deep and dark--
haven't you slaked your thirst
in the cold waters within?
the world needs its story-tellers
dreamers
lovers
wordsmiths
artsmiths
quiet helpers
kindness-doers
flower-pickers
letter-senders
creators of all sorts
walks
shapes
& sizes.
If you are one of these
yield to yourself
& the creativity that lives
in you--
do not hold out the world.
for it needs your gifts
it needs your love
it is thirsty for your joy.
there are stories
that live
in worlds
without rules
where the telling
need not make sense
where beliefs
have no need for precedent
where the stage
is set with
broad brush strokes
where the laws of physics
need not be observed
& where the important part
isn’t the story itself
but the invisible things
it made you feel
to be young
is a frightening thing.
it means coming up against
all the darkest
things of life:
death
loss
grief
loneliness
despair
before you’ve had the chance
to understand what they mean.
it means facing certain facts:
the ones you love most
you must someday let go;
you will never be the child
you once were;
nor are you likely to become
what you once dreamed of being.
it means staring into your remaining years
as an unfathomable abyss
& fearing what change
what loss of current circumstance
may take place therein.
it means realizing that:
the words you least want to listen to
are those you most need to hear;
joy and loss
are in fact one and the same;
your tears are the bridge
between your most treasured moments
& the knowledge of their impermanence;
all things of this world will fade
& clinging to them cannot prolong the inevitable;
running away only brings you closer
to the thing from which you run;
& the only way for pain to end
is to feel it as deeply as you can
for as long as it wishes to be felt.
when birds sing
are they aware of their audience?
or do they simply sing
because they know they must?
be the bird you hear through your window
who doesn’t know you’re listening.
sing
not because someone is listening
but because you know you must.
you never know whose ears your song will reach
& you may never find out.
perhaps it is better that way.
face to face with the sky 