A Sunday Story that turned into a poem.
I'm glad to know it's not just my story.
But also sorry to know that too.
I walk around and look at walls
try to decide if they are good enough
if I am.
There are dents lines and cracks
and it feels that they mark my body
not just this house.
Maybe no one else will notice
won’t wonder why the paint isn’t better
why I’m not smaller.
Nothing is what it’s supposed to be.
What is it supposed to be?
Shame bleeds into self worth.
Dreams are hard to sleep with
packed up and sharp under the pillow
But lies are true if you believe them
if you can’t untangle the doubt and fear
held too tight.
There is beauty here and we know it
but can’t see through the haze of regret
Let go of that time that wasn’t yours.
But can you let go?
Guilt keeps you anchored.
Everything I have seems so small
worth hardly anything next to the bigness
next to all that is more.
Maybe we shouldn’t even do this
make things with only a little bit of light
compared to all the shine.
Sorrow says that even my grave will be
too shallow compared to the one next door
doubt even in death.
It’s so hard to live among this.
How do you live among this?
Fear holds tightly.
But thoughts are not for believing they say
and what great relief it would bring to let this be so
to be pure.
To be just as good and just as pretty
full and enough and with everything you need
the worry gone.
Breathe in and out and let it come
this knowing that you are and you have
because this is it.
There is only one life from which to shine your light.
What light will you shine?
Be brave and whole.
Because you are.