My heart is not for dragging 

It’s sunny out. 

As I am not especially sad today, 

There is little impetus 

For the written word. 

But to look at suffering, 

I say this,

I have allowed too many strangers 

To find their way into my camp

Familiarize themselves with my altar,

Lay their heads upon it 

And turn my crystals to ash,

My shells to dust, 

My idols to emptiness. 

When they leave, 

And I peer upon the ruins,

I see only the sad remains 

Of failed attempts 

At true love. 

When praying goes wrong, 

And my words fall on deaf ears, 

When the sacred soft animal 

Of my body is desecrated,

I must offer grace.

I must heed the words 

Of that still small voice, 

Which tells me to stand up 

On the porch 

On a sunny day like today 

And give thanks for this life, 

Rather than rage, 

Rather than ruin.

My altar is not for stomping, 

My heart is not for dragging 

Behind you. 

If you will not hold it, 

I will gladly take it and place it once more 

In its right position, 

At the center of me. 

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It is very hard looking around and seeing so many people in pain, trapped in their suffering, in maladaptive mentalities, and poor habits. I remember that being me like it was yesterday because in many ways it was. The metaphorical yesterday. Not long ago when my life was in shambles and I had no idea how to put it back together. I see my friends, my lovers suffering and I know there is nothing I can do but beer present. Yet I wish I could save everyone. I wish I could exhume everyone from the muck of their sorrows. 

Thoughts

This blog has once more become a private sanctuary. I’m glad for it. Exposure is lovely. Solitude is better. Even still I worry for my privacy. For my ability to speak without consequence. Hence the physical journal that no one sees. The one in which I haven’t written a heartfelt thing in months. I have shied from it. I’m tired. Wishing I could sleep. Wishing that artistry wasn’t such a struggle. Wishing this world supported my craft on a socioeconomic level. Wishing what I did for money didn’t secretly ruin my sense of self while seeming to empower it. I live in a catch 22. Paradox is my middle name. Sadness haunts me when I cannot hear it. Body image issues hang like shadows over my being. A yearning to be what I can never be. A yearning to turn the clock back to a time before high school. Somewhere amidst the blossoming of my true self. To a time when I could have changed my fate. But what I am. The life I lead. Appear to me fated. Inevitable. Unchangeable. Fixed. Static. So again acceptance forces its way into my mouth. Forces its way into the meat of me. The core that demands peace. That is made of it. That is shrouded in illusory tapestries of misplaced suffering. So here I am. Alive. And that must be good enough. That must be sufficient. For I’ve no other option but death. And death is no option at all. Because it will come of its own accord at some point. There is no rush and there is no uncertainty about it. Only the necessity to live well and rightly and bear whatever the universe has seen fit to lay upon my plate.