Piñata of restimulations

I am a human piñata

filled with traumas.

Each moment

is a minefield

topically presenting.

Unconscious parallels,

triggered from contact,

open from the wound of being,

falls manifest into emotions

anointing from the past

the severity of now.

I am in the first person

without answers or recall.

The numbing occurs

from blows lifetimes removed.

What is precipitous

cannot be claimed outright.

What is consequence

dresses the occasion.

I awake into a position.

A script hands me lines.

My feelings are forced upon me.

I say out of context

what is so.

They say I am acting out.

I ask for help to decode this.

Every whack is a new episode.

Who has the time

for falling parts of self

to reassemble more consciously

then before?

To call it restimulation

is a discovery unto itself.

I am grateful

but this process

has no endpoint

to give motivation or relief.

I look for the metaphorical cord

hung from above.

I wish for a spinal chord

to simultaneously sing

to myself secretly

from both beyond and through.

To sing from beyond within

and yet express

through what is falling manifest.

There is a sweetness

behind what is put forth.

It is reflected in other’s reception.

By giving, I come to know of this

first hand.

All the gaiety behind the sorrow,

all the joy behind the wounds,

all the connections offered by treats,

all the emptiness gained by giving,

all the clarity

from false actions received,

as no action ever

denies soul presence.

I am an amulet of transformation.

I wear it upon my absence’s heart.

Every whack kisses me deeply.

I love from afar

until I am empty of need.