You cant keep blocking or ignoring the feelings. They can swim. You cant drown them with alcoholic ice or drugs. Numbing them doesn’t make them flee forever. You will always come back to them in some way or another if you don’t properly work through them, with them. Your freedom-to live happier, is worth it.
Your being is closer, the sapphire fragrance of your inner child stands tall among the adult reeds. And my hands dribble through the adequate possibility, catching the stickiness of the long stems between my fingers.
Making sense of today, the future.
How many wrong roads have I taken ?
How many have been right?
Why do I feel they are mostly wrong,
when I know i am where i am supposed to be?
Am i not convinced
or am i just uncomfortable sitting so fragile?
Relationship with my eight year old son strained
like raw spaghetti rigid in the sink
and when you toss those toothpick noodles against the wall
The sauce burnt on the stove
even though I like the smell because it smells like I cooked something nice
like how I created my son without looking at a recipe
or the ingredients.
Who measures out sperm or eggs?
So here I struggle, while he stirs the pot
of boiling brain temperatures of mine
and racing heart.
The perfect dish of basil and mushroom spaghetti doesn’t exist
but getting my hands dirty and paste splattered on my apron
that I don’t even wear because my whole body is a canvas for stains,
is this process that at least
I can use to become better
making the dish of Life
sticky and sweet
Awgust blooms it’s way onto the platform.
a different approach is taken.
i don’t dance yet,
my mind is stabilizing still.
trickles of frustration and anger
i let them.
I am not afraid of what I feel
i am shifting control to me.
and Awgust will be my platform
on which to do so.
If I broke the bubbles in the bath with a sledgehammer , I thought myself a murderer.
When I break my own heart, I feel like a loser in the gutters of East Toronto.
What is the difference between smashing up other peoples lives
instead of your own?
What makes guilt fight conscience?
What makes you live so poorly
so intentionally unpotentially?
You know there is more out there for you
then sucking bubbles down your throat trying to drown your sorrows,
as if air could do that anyways.
Being stuck for years doesn’t have to mean death.
I think it is the feeling of being mentally stuck
that keeps us the stuck for the longest
the most deadly of all stucks.
We get these bursts of living every now and then
and surge forward with them
and then are surprised when we trip over a log in the middle of a cement parking lot.
Expect and equip.
You have it in you.
I aim for sugar dirt.
Crusted in your burnt bacon.
I’ll bend so far I won’t feel my big toe,
stuck in salsa
that you dripped down the stove
just to see it travel
from top to bottom
like our slow touches
that give us freedom
to love our flavoured beauty.
The sun is just around the curve;
whispering this to you,
Back lit and caressing all that is seen,
with a strong subtlety
of grey purple.
The world is still quiet here
pyjama shuffling slipper feet,
and I smile.
Today is choices and availability
to do and to be purposeful,
just the way
The Grey Purple of the Sky-
the chance at another Day,
tells me to be.
Even the strongest swimmers can only flail for so long.