Poetry

Photo by Alexander Fastovets on Unsplash

woke up again — which in itself is a miracle — but along with the early dawn came one of those lessons you don’t forget unless you’ve completely
lost the plot.

when you are trapped in an ice block of
frozen disappointment, remember the old tonic
for a troubled mind:

“whatever is arising is a waveform
passing through the body
rather than a structure
defining your person”

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Photo by Ryan Jubber on Unsplash

I’ve managed, for the most part,
to keep my location undisclosed.
But yesterday, it felt wise to pin
my coordinates because I found
myself in a sea of men who have
nothing else to talk bout other than
sales, sex, and stocks.

While boiling oats, I let the steam
enter my hands, and the first light of
a cold, crisp December morning softly
moves through the trees.

I take a sip of my coffee and remember
the men I read about who conversed
over farming, fighting, and fishing
and become further curious because I
cannot squarely find myself in either archetype of the
current or the previous.

The oats are done, as are the stories
of who I think I should be.

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Poetry

Photo by David Schultz on Unsplash

very few of us have the bravery to be nothing,
and so the cycle continues.

we intuit that there is no arrival
but we chomp and chomp
toppling forward toward who knows what,
hoping, even praying to find happiness
and along the way, simultaneously
pleasured and sorrowed by such small, little things.

what if we stopped all that chasing and craving?

this is the question that millions are willing to look away from
to prolong a movie that masquerades as reality.

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Poetry

Photo by Colin Lloyd on Unsplash

all night, the cool heavy breeze

tumbles through the window from an
ancient past naked from the cloak of time.

it’s no wonder why the language of sleep is fluid off my tongue.

when I rise, the streams of fear
have been damned, and I stand before

another threshold that must be crossed

if I care to let go of what has already

been lost.

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