I exist in a liminal state A being And not a being
Grief ebbs and flows in king tides Emptying me Submerging me Stealing away my breath With its pressure changes Feelings grow in question marks Within my hollow chest Proliferating like fungus in the fall Inside of my being that is not a being
Emptiness overflowing with nothingness Destruction and restoration Warring to fill the immeasurable void Shaped like my cremated heart Pulsing with unfathomable aching Testing the tolerances of My being that is not a being
It is surreal to be and not be To experience the reality of the question Posed by Master Shakespeare In rhyme and sonnet so long ago To understand that one can be both A being and not a being
I may appear whole What you cannot see Are the burns on my feet From walking miles through fire The stars in my eyes From taking too many hits The lacerations on my skin From navigating uncountable shards of glass The weariness deep in my bones From rising everyday to overcome Some challenge or trial Again And again I have dodged and weaved Punched and parried my way Through days I never could have predicted I have shown up when all I desired Was to lay down and give up Because if not me, then who Mothers have to dig deep We have to find that reservoir of power labeled Do it for the children So I push So I push So I push Through the deepest, coldest waters The fiercest, raging fires The longest, darkest nights because If not me, then who For them
Everyone who has ever loved you Have put their hands up and Taken a step back Now they are looking at me Wondering if now is when I will finally do the same
I’m walking between worlds Both in a nightmare And waking from one Navigating the rocky path One footfall at a time Calling on my ancestors Those women who each Did the same in their own way As I step out of darkness Into the healing light of freedom
I regret to inform you That the reality you subscribe to Is currently offline As reality has no power switch There is no way to reset the system Please accept my apologies For the extreme inconvenience Such is the risk of sentient life I never promised you life would be easy
I wrote you a box of postcards I never sent I could not set the stamp In place I could not address it To that space You weren't there anyway You never really were
Words Wishes and Wisdom 