I’m going to need a little bit of time to think this one through. It’s a biggy. In the meantime, a poem. Yes, I’m a closet poet.
The poem isn’t necessarily about how we relate to the world around us. It’s about a deeply personal struggle. A struggle that alters you. For better and for worse. From the depths of your brain to the ends of your fingers. It’s true what they say, sometimes we have to go back to go forwards, and go down to go up. Our minds wind up like elastic. We can only stretch so far and then we ping right back. As long as we don’t reach breaking point that is. If the elastic snaps, it’s impossible to go anywhere.
As I wipe my face on the gravel.
The path is long wound twisted and right,
And I can’t find my way to the end.
My eye lids, torn open, drip into the Earth
To the pool where my voice has drowned.
My splintered spine has pierced at my neck
And I’m locked in a backwards stare.
A buttercup floats up over my head
And lands at the base of my back.
To a scab of blue black and gold.
I pull my nail beds out from the dirt
And flick at the bloodless mound.
It crumbles and splits and tears at my skin,
When a greenish root sprouts out.
I smile in vain and straighten my legs,
My head twists slowly forward.
I loop a knot around my tooth,
And pull and pull and pull.