, , , , , , , , ,


When I am left to my own devices –
Which is often –
And I mean –
When even my passions have
Abandoned me
I find my mind wandering to
Places I keep unseen.
From the world around me.
From my friends and my family.
And the God that birthed me.
I hide these things from my prayer life.
I bury them where they
Will never see the light.
I don’t try to understand them.
And I don’t try to give Life to them –
On most days, if I’m lucky
I can get away with pretending
To forget them.
But they do appear and demand
That I release them
And here is where I know my own strength –
In that silence where I indulge them
Sometimes I smile
Because I’m inspired by them –
To motion and to poetry and to the
Creation of stories
And I find myself burning pages away
With ink and bleeding passion –
But when I pause even for a second
To get my bearing and to catch my breath
I see the darkness and the – twistedness
And the tainted shades of this beautiful
And when I try to find the words to
Define it all –
It’s Vulgar and Unclean and Impure and
Sometimes leaves me frightened –
And then I ask myself – who am I
That I can like these things and still be me?
Who am I –
That I can bury these things and walk
This world with a straight face?
How am I like this?
Why am I like this?
What is the point?
What’s my purpose?
Left alone, to my own devices
Will I find the definitions of these feelings –