work in progress

Growth, whatever you want to call it, “the path”, our journey, ascension to higher consciousness. No matter the name, when you’re in the shit, it can feel unreal and even unbearable. Lately, compounded grief has led me to an unexpected soul awakening. “Am I living or existing?” Depression has haunted me in the past, but lately, I see life as a gift transmitted through experiences of love, deep sorrow, bliss and frustration. I do not judge anyone who beams while flowing through life and enjoying what there is to enjoy, but my soul craves growth, magic, and the gentle pursuit of fulfillment. Whenever I am feeling the weight of the world asking me to be emotionally brave, a butterfly pays me a visit. No matter where I happen to be, in the city, in nature, or sitting in the park talking to my therapist, a butterfly appears as a reminder. Metamorphosis is my modus operandi.

sputtering butterfly

I don’t know what to do with it
the hollow thud between my ribs
In the place where air is supposed to flow
a tunnel of fierce winds
   spitting monsters of doubt

The bomb of birth
searching for safety whatever the cost,
until we can no longer be fed

Then drop our bags, begin again
Try not to fall through the slats in the everywheres

Plunging towards the ocean on my way out of dirt
where thirst avoids the stream of evolution
with scorched tongue–create the words again
I am trying

Categories: poetryTags: , , ,

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