All tagged Poetry

The Gift

The gift of sickness is in learning to care.
The gift in suffering is in learning to surrender.
The gift in loneliness is in learning to need.
Every story you make up,
Every doubt you sow deeply,
Must have a counterbalance.
A yin to the yang.
Take what is offered, they say.
Even if the offering isn’t what you’d hoped.
Even if the job doesn’t come.
Even if the ones you love keep leaving.
Even if your body is collapsing underneath you.
Take what is offered, and muster up what is required to weather it.
It was not given you lightly.
It is assumed that you are already capable.
That you were born ready for the storm,
About to wash away life as you know it — as you wanted it.
That you would run towards it with open arms,
And a willing heart.
It is certain: you were meant to receive it.
So go.
Move forward with the marks that come from survival.
Feel the strength that has been stitched into you through perseverance.
Find the capacity for joy that the grief created.
Notice the opportunities that arise when everything else falls away.
Bask in the light that was waiting for you to find it,
Walking through the darkness you never thought could end.
The depth of what you’re feeling goes both ways.
There are those who crave what you have been blessed with.
Find them, and give them your need, your surrender, your care.
Help them to see their gifts through the curses disguising them.
Help them move forward, and through.
Together, you’ll always look for the upside,
Even when it feels like it’s dragging you down.

What Does It Mean To Be An Empath?

It means I pick up your shit and won’t let it go.
Carry it throughout my day 
Integrate it into my being
Until I can no longer distinguish the line between you and I. 
It means that I’m still thinking about that ragey driver who cut me off and flipped me both birds through her tinted SUV windows this morning. 
Not because I’m pissed that she cut me off,
But because I’m worried about her…

I Want To Be A Morning Person

I can’t even count how many times I’ve said, “I’m tired,”
And expected that to be enough of an excuse, an exemption, an explanation, for all of my behavior and perceived shortcomings. 
How many times I’ve negotiated with the screaming Mimi’s in my mind, Telling them that the day wasn’t wasted. That it’s OK for me to sleep in. 
Finding faith in inching towards some semblance of balance. 
Blurring the lines between self-care and self-sabotage, not being able to trust my own instincts because I’m. Just. That. Exhausted…

Lift Me, Oh Please, Lift Me.

I want to be saved.

I want to be helped out of my morning coffin by gentle hands that usher me through my day.

I want someone to monitor my thoughts, press into my aching bones, and whisper away the fatigue.

I am constantly wrestling, and I could use a water boy.

I want to be treated like an infant, like an octogenarian.

Feeble and foolhardy,

Spoon fed only what I need to thrive.

Carry me, then force me to move my tired body,

Even if it hurts.

Place my hands on the keys, and whisper exactly what I need to hear.

To get through the day, and back into the night,

Without judging that it was wasted.

Take control over my every choice and consideration,

For I am not fit to rule.

I experience my slow ruination, and do nothing to alter my course.

A jaded, selfish monarch in need of a minder.

I am my disease, along with the ones that came before in other bodies, and other lifetimes.

I inherit the depression, the addiction, the codependence, and retreat further inward as they creep onward.

Be my savior, and lift me out of this self-proclaimed grave.

Dig me out of my self-made puddle.

Place my feet back on solid ground, and pry my eyes open to take in the light.

I want to be brought to my knees.

I want to face my fate.

Teach me how to fish by holding my hands as you scrape away the scales.

Lay my broken-down catch in front of me and make me ask how it was done.

Show me what it is to be lifted,

So that I may seek the hands outstretched,

Waiting to pull me up by my untarnished palms.