I’m not interested in being all polished and pretty
I just want to get down to the real nitty-gritty
I want to be open and raw
and pour out the heart of my truth
No longer bypassing the hurts
created in my youth
I expose myself
in hopes you may see
There is nothing at all “wrong”
with simply being me…
This poem ties into a musing I wrote a few days ago and didn’t publish.
It was cathartic and healing to cough up my crap. Not holding in my lungs the stale breath recycled by fear. A pandemic in and of itself.
I wasn’t going to share all that I brought to the air and then I reconsidered. Figured it might help serve as a reminder to somebody else. Or even me as my muses are my medicine often taken later. Stored in the chest that holds my heart. No bitter pills to swallow. Much better to own than to wallow. Or continue to feel hollow from the numbing away. And so I will say. Let the caged bird free from all the debris. Imprisoned no more by the heart and the door. Kicking it in is never a sin. In fact, exposing the truth is the only way we will win.
After airing and sharing. Opening and exposing the junk in my trunk. My spirit was refreshed. And today I feel nowhere near those feels. This is what it really means to confess your “sins.” Those shamed emotions that got a bad rap can only poison you if you keep them hidden in a closet of shame.
The truth shall set you free and it can only be seen when held up to the light.
And so here’s what I wrote…
My heart feels heavy. A deep ache weighing on my spirit, bogging me down.
I feel frustrated and stuck like a pebble in my shoe that I can’t take off because the laces are knotted too tightly. I feel aware that I’m annoyed by it and I’m annoyed by that. I’m annoyed that I can’t seem to shift my state and wonder if it’s really that I just don’t want to. I haven’t “allowed” myself to be here. Fully. Ever. Really. When I think about it. I mean what I could never be was depressed or angry or any of these such feels, so why would I want to grant permission for them to linger around me like a stinky turd now?
Maybe a part of me just wants to rebel. That part I shoved a rag in’s mouth every time it dared utter the slightest nuance of a cry for help. It wasn’t allowed to speak. Only to hold the silver lining pen and to help me draw and paint roses on the very thing causing its desire to yell on my behalf.
Letting myself be what I never could be. All of that’s been happening lately. A bitch even. I’ve been that too. And I kinda like her. And yet part of me says I shouldn’t. That there’s something “wrong” with this sudden behavior that is out of the “norm”. And how appropriate in the timing as it’s all surfacing in the midst of this “Pandemic” with all the talks of “Normal” and what it even is.
A deep reverence for self is rising up in me. Like a battlefield warrior taking charge across the paths of least resistance, I tried for so long to follow. This unfamiliar one filled with thorns and stickers and weeds that I’ll let choke me until I cry from the depths of my being all that I’ve suppressed. The good, the bad, and the ugly. And I’ll let them have lunch with each other and play naked twister on the picnic blanket until they all win the game that just got played by the character of me.
The “High on Life” Coach
If I were a Greek Goddess
I’d want to be called Catharsis
I’d come from the city of Purgation
whereby in this land
we express fully and freely
often and out loud
and if you dared to visit
it would be required of you~
And after you take off your shoes
while exploring your stay
you’d never want to leave
and go back to the old way