I don't know
if I'm a writer
but I write
I don't know
if I'm a lover
but I try to love
I don't know
what human is
exactly
but I try to be human
I don't know
what normal is
precisely
but I can't help
but try to be normal
I try to have fluidity
in my life
but I don't see myself
as water
I don't know
if I am compassionate enough
I don't see myself
as a compact being
but I think
I am passionate
I see myself
as expanding
trying to expound
on life's little eccentricities
hoping failure
doesn't always dictate to me
predictably
while I seek real life
and even true love
beyond these finite boundaries
of my fiery existence
beyond the confines
of my shackled mind
and broken heart
hoping to someday find
that eternal place
in the universe
where happiness and contentment
allow us at least
a moment of peace and joy
that sacred place
where true love
overwhelms us
with every heartbeat
and every breath we take
all those hard times
trying years
when there was no god
or life full of plenty
those copious times
when we felt forgotten
plural emptiness
when we wondered
if God
cared at all
when the world
seemed void
of compassion
and darkness
would consume us
having chewed the bleeding flesh
leaving only skeletonized bones
if there is a God
if love truly does exist
perhaps we will wake one day
and find ourselves in paradise
where glory will surround us
and joy will envelop us
exquisitely wrap around us
let us feel completely whole
a place that caresses
our very soul

 

 

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