- Poetry -
The only way out is through
and the only things I thought
drift away from my stem
like dandelion fuzz on the wind.
There’s no point in wishing
because as it is with praying to a god
we forget how capable we are;
that wisdom is the awareness
of how little we know;
that trees don’t pray or plead,
they just grow;
they don’t reject the moisture,
they just absorb;
they don’t fear the darkness,
they root down low.
No options but death or
to dig into me:
to see the eternal recurrence
to reject a soothsayer’s assurance
to slay myself in the search for meaning
as a truly meaningless being.
Something is rotten in our
when we all together express
to the truths that victims aren’t at fault
that poverty is not a product of laziness
that there is violence inherent in the system
that we can only blame ourselves for lack of vision.
It has long been time
to throw off old skins
and bury our carcasses in the earth
and watch as former selves
compost and decompose
turning death into soft loam
into a soil so fertile
that meaning can’t help but grow.
If we're not enraged
we're not paying attention
and we've learned not to question
our lack of connection
And even though nothing really matters
what the fuck have you got to lose
by helping someone grow through?
by connecting to humanity’s vast system of roots?
Don’t aspire to be the wind,
but instead be the seed
that finds the good stuff to sprout in,
that can’t be anything but grounded,
and learn that resiliency is found in
but the forest.