My depressions lately, mixed with this ache, created an overwhelming crabbiness that wouldn't lift.
I couldn't quite place the source of the ache... I just knew that it had to do with the lack of friends around, and the idea of people coming home.
over the course of the day, a little bit of clarity came as I wrote this poem.
Every few hours I would sneak back into the office to write another line.
The spacing will be slightly screwed up... but this was my plea.
My Heart
Oh my little heart,
You’re clever, you find ways to meander through rocks, through hard places,
Oh but you’re tough
You’ve won a thousand strong man contests, with no prizes
The wise men say the experience is the prize, my heart you have become so wise
Oh my heart,
filled with vacant rooms you’ve kept the place warm and tidy.
Some other, in their haste left the door open, the pipes have frozen,
And you, you’ve stoically kept the furnace fuming.
Oh my little heart,
Pushed a thousand times to heal in a moment, you make doctor’s believe in miracles.
For each healing ten times that –the stretch to accommodate, you’re an olympic gymnast
-training since you were an innocent.
Oh my heart,
you’ve kept some, some of that pureness, despite madness, despite venom, despite betrayal,
my little heart,
you are a warrior, a magician, a sage, how have you bared it
the branch breaking winds, the moments lost at sea, the questioning always questioning confusion.
Oh my little heart,
how have you clarified the madness, how calmly chose, calmly hidden away
when poison rippled, when torrents of passion, when breathless and abandoned
Oh my heart,
I’ve asked you so much, every time to reach, reach just beyond infinity,
But will you, just one time more
try
As the poem came out... I realized that I felt deeply wounded by the idea that there were so many people who i considered my closest, dearest loves... who had no concern, no way of knowing, and no expectation that anything would be wrong with me. That I could suffer without notice... because I don't share, don't ask for help, don't reach out. Yet, upon reuniting I would reach out to them, hear their concerns, sooth their aches, explore their passions, not take no for an answer. I would reunite with their heart, or feel dissatisfied. It is my desire, it is my intention, it is my action... every time... but I want them to do the same. I rarely ever ask. It feels like too much to ask, to hold this torn and retched heart together for a time, to relieve it of its duty... to be sure I put up plenty of walls should they ask. I create as many barriers as needed plus one more, but shouldn't those I truly love understand that? and then... in composing a plea to my heart, my beautiful and awesome heart. This heart that I don't deserve, that I abuse, that I torment, and push far beyond anything it can bear... I also sort of recognized that maybe it deserves better... and maybe that is why I am so defensive and hostile...
yet I still ask of it... the poem wasn't finished, I didn't find relief until I asked it again... to open, to embrace... to forgive and love despite it all... to love no matter what.
I don't know it all seems very angsty and convoluted now, but it brought so much clarity to my spirit the other day...it felt important to share.
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