Here

This year, I have a goal to use one of my poems to transition (at least for one night) into spoken word poetry. Here is one piece I am considering.  It is one section of a much longer work on loss, uneasiness, and hope:

Yet, the thing is.

I’ve learned that we can learn

all we want,

 

Yet still become

what we want to become.

A being; what we are.

 

Yes, I have convinced

my mind of sinless tragedies.

 

In my chest resides

a suddle tension

that comes with a good cry,

a nervous yelp the dog

pleades to his neighbor

and I know.

 

I know that it can feel

like pain

When you feel nothing at all.

 

Nothing, in the sense that it is

less

(we think)

than what we used to know.

 

You do feel one thing, though.

Fast-moving, rushed.

Isolated in feeling,

incomplete in understanding.

 

Your veins burn, sometimes.

 

At others they stand still.

Breath can come in,

but skatters on ridges of the throat

mountains of doubt

on it’s way out,

waiting

 

For what seems to be an epiphany,

or at least empathy.

 

We knew all along, didn’t we?

That every problem came with an answer

Every breath a song.

 

We’re still here.

The song is playing–

Listen.

 

I am layered.

What is old, is still surrounding me.

What is older, is building within me.

It is in my soul, eternal.

 

I accept the challenges of today,

the newness of tomorrow,

and the fact that shit can come my way

And has. 

 

That I hold it in my body

and in my head

and in my heart

That, too, has remained safe.

 

It is my red-blood-filled-memory-keeper

It is my life-still-renews-daily-seeker

It is the fact

that I know there exists

a spirt in knowing we exist.

 

We have value

even if it is an uncertain paradigm.

I make it a certain fact,

even when it makes me nervous.

 

Anxiety pulling itself out

needing more

to know

if I’m

doing this right at all.

 

June, 2014

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