I listen beneath, the initial sounds rising before I can organize them into something aesthetically pleasing and satisfying to my eyes,
I listen beneath, where unfinished phrases arrive carrying a feeling as my careful mind would have edited away from what pleases my listening side,
I listen beneath, trusting that confusion sometimes guards a doorway on labels, where language cannot open too politely,
I listen beneath, wondering if I’m trying to control the message before it fully reaches my logic and my deeper understanding,
I listen beneath, and a sense of something older than planning starts to stir within my mind when it becomes clear and obvious…
I burst open, the anger that had been locked away in the sealed places because I was preoccupied with appearing reasonable and accepting to everyone else,
I burst open, letting force leave my body so softer truths can stop hiding behind clenched teeth and deeper tears,
I burst open, surprised by how grief and tenderness often wait behind the mask of irritation and mask of boredom,
I burst open every time I swallow something that hurts me, what am I protecting underneath this unexpressed pain,
I burst open, and the room fills with interconnected words that I didn’t realize I was capable of sharing through expression…
I write quickly before shame can tidy up the page and transform raw honesty into something acceptable and insignificant,
I write quickly, while memory is still warm enough to reveal details daylight usually scares away compared to the random nights that I’m wild awake,
I write quickly, because hesitation has stolen too many truths by asking them to sound elegant at first, neglecting the honesty behind the experience,
I write quickly, but am I censoring my pain because I fear it will become too real when I put it on paper and read it to the world,
I write quickly, and as I do, hidden rooms within me begin to unlock themselves as I willingly walk through the door of my hidden fears…
I want to trust in the strange arrivals that make little sense until much later when life circles back to explain them,
I want to trust in the the accidental patterns that somehow touch wounds I had not named aloud and not ready to look at,
I want to trust in what enters sideways when direct thinking has already exhausted its narrow road towards I might destined to go,
I want to trust, can I receive guidance without having to dominate the original truest source of it
I want to trust because mystery has helped me where certainty once failed, and what is meant for me may arrive only when I loosen my grip on needing answers and just beginning to trust the process all over again…
Watchwords:
Something older than planning
Mask of irritation
Fear how real in ink
Life circles back explain
Mystery helped me before certainty failed
Here is Tikatarot, who dares you to answer the question, “Who am I?”..
As and will always be reminding you to dream:
