No one
wants to hear
my truth.
Not even myself,
as
I wallow
in
it’s a pity, self-pity:
Should I
pity party
or
pity anyone who
doubts
my
ultimate arrival
at some
destination unknown?
And yet,
I am worn
&
disheveled,
down & out
worn
out
by hedging my bets on
the
“not my portion”
but (in need) safe
bets.
Bet you did not know
I could fly,
even
w/ these clipped wings.
Neither did I,
as
I leap
faithful, or not,
leap,
practice it daily—small leaps
into
what is
I cannot see,
do not know,
try not to care,
as
I dare
to soar,
if only
still in my mind,
set
on shifting
many years of mindset
in
limited horizons
in
zones
of
everyday knowability,
set in
stone
certification & careers
absent
of
adɔe (some simple loving-kindness)
w/ no
freedom 2BE
other
than set in fixed
contracts
clocking in and out
in and out
in and out
more in, than outdoors
where the sun
shines
on
“I can’t believe
it’s not
magic!”
when
we make the (im)possible
so that
I’m possible
and then some…
pity party
almost derails
my
ultimate arrival
at this
destination unknown.