I walked behind my heart, Covered up to the thighs in its rivers, freezing from the chill that it became since life served it grief beyond winters, only seeing the calm of blood that passed the rest of my body on the inside. we learned to flow together, to search for ourselves On the walls & floors of my flesh, with no control as I got closer to feel its beats, as blood became my Feet I swam without ever learning but knowing & feeling how weak I could be in its strength.
It seems like the correct time to share the poem that reconnected me with my passion. “Writing for the Calm” propelled me back into writing; it enabled me to own up to all that makes me, me. The energy I describe has the ability to cripple me, yes, but I have learned to embrace it, be proud of it, use it–the piece of me that I am finally comfortable with. Sometimes, I need a reminder that I am power if I just believe that I am. After all, I write to know I exist outside my own mind…
I’ve always had an unexplainable,
Unnamed mass of energy inside,
Much like a tightly drawn bow,
A jostled can of Coke,
Or an eerily tranquil evening,
When the air suggests that everything
And nothing exists at once.
This has led to my greatest victories,
And the most paralyzing defeats.
I couldn’t accomplish anything without it,
Yet it has coerced me into villainous situations:
The contradiction of my life.
Anything to curb the position of this anxiety.
I can even say it’s easy to gravitate
Towards beautiful destruction.
And so, I grip the pen and feel the paper.
Yes. I want others to admire my work.
Yes. I love manipulating language.
Yes. Our stories must be told–preserved–
So they survive the abstract notion of time.
Why I write though, is so I can take a true,
Satisfying, uninhibited breath.
In the aftermath of a group of pen strokes,
I free the air I wasn’t even aware I held inside.
I write for the calm.
I write to know I exist outside my own mind.
[Thanks to those who help me find my calm when it goes missing.]