I am the Poem.

I am not a poet. I am the poem. 

Letters unfolding day by day, a necklace stacked of moments, layer after layer of cascading of ruby memories. 

Being molded by the paint-splattered hands of something I don’t yet understand. 

Being crafted by the breath of the Summer wind itself. 

Being ignited, brought to life by forces I can't easily name. 

Life brings me what I need, not what I want at all. 

The grass knows what I need, not what I want at all. 

And for once, I remember to be thankful. 

Converging here into a vortex of choppy sentences, lines, phrases—

The great unknown of every day terrorizes and terrifies me, just enough to remind me who I really am. 

A human being. 

The exquisite fragility that comes with this truth. 

Invisible hands

Palpable truths

Emerging from the misty places in my heart

Coming into full view. 

I am

And I am

And I am

Aliveness vivified, awareness purified

In this moment

I am. 

I am the poem, 

The roaring windswept truth

Of heart itself. 

Because I feel. 

I am brave enough to feel. 

To open my eyes and be as crushingly vulnerable as I really am, 

I am

And I am

And I am

I am the poem, 


Dripping wet

The vortex convergence of misery, love, sorrow and joy beckoning further and deeper—

To the winged mouth of truth. 

I am the poem, and the poem becomes me. 

There is no separation. 

But then

There never really was. 



Photo: Flickr