Ego comfort only rekindles pain.
Letting go is then
holding onto letting go
rewrapped as its same lesson.
I use fuss and fume as fuel
for disappointments’ discharge.
I cannot murder myself, except slowly
by not directly addressing what slays me.
Murder is a style as if to passively say
help, as avoidance, is always on the way.
Those in more obvious pain serve me.
They slip in beyond my means
to disregard.
They eventually reveal themselves to me.
Out of a love that I give forth
comes my self-love discovery.
This intimate exchange
is where my wisdom comes to serve
in order to receive.
I deny to avoid deeper pain.
This is instinctually sensible to me.
Open wounds reveal compound fractures.
I assume an unconscious splint
is there to mend me.
For me, highs have no shelf life
and lows are re-dusted daily.
If blackness were a color,
I would have a crayon box full.
If bluntness were
an eagle-scout merit badge
then I would be wearing
the high road to achievement.
If my soul has a shell of karma
then familiarity makes it my home.
I have a passion for dismissal
in self-deprecating ways.
I seek harsh self-reprimand.
Internal landmarks of discord
I use to survive.
Trust is revealed in my darkest hour.
The ocean around me
is mercy granted or denied by tides.
I am humbled into a oneness
within the egoless that flows.
No comments:
Post a Comment