Somewhere between my passion and my service,
I stand wounded and bleeding,
patched up and moving in place;
inhaling.
Frustration often gets tucked
in my back pocket
or hidden,
swallowed by the safety of my Santa Fe.
Due diligence
slides down my back
and pushes my shoulders up,
puts a pimp in my walk,
encourages me when running really should be an option.
I've grown weary of this kind of quiet,
self imposed
and societal,
appropriate and angry,
arbitrarily innate and strangely comforting.
Yet, I stand,
unable to use plain language
and clearly be heard,
weeping,
walking,
wondering
if kindness is the best medicine
when you aren't kind to yourself?
No comments:
Post a Comment