self talk after pot brownies
September 15, 2021
two hours and four minutes past noon
I was never written about.
never the muse
but the possessor of a mind so obtuse
that I wrote all the obsession out of me
until there was none left.
layers of iron laden water
stood still in my basement,
in the buckets and the washbasins
creating an obscene tune of utter stagnancy.
but I had to return
leaving the momentary escape behind
to scrape the stubborn rust stains
off the wet floor.
this beginning tastes different
and I have a delta attached
to the left of my soul;
and to whatever is left of this soul.
I was led on and on to dead ends
only to breakthrough and make way;
to sit back and breathe in solace.
with my perspective, everything has changed.
I'm the strongest when alone
with the fresh mountain air speeding past
and thrashing against my face;
peeling off all the masks that I've ever worn.
there's something rough and fierce
about honesty and tenderness;
about loving with all your heart
and bending till you break.
but I choose to channelize that love towards myself
because I've seen myself standing alone
against the worst of times
when people were too busy
hurting, blaming and accusing me;
when they were too busy
drowning shoulder deep in self pity
and using it as an excuse
to do what they did.
but i have forgiven myself
and everyone I've come across.
I've chosen to walk out of the dark places.
I'm not looking for love.
for, if it's there, it'll find it's way to me.
I refuse to be consumed by trivialities.
I'm waiting on miracles
and I believe in magic
and the fact that smiles heal us.
I'm ready for massive changes,
prepared to combat any darkness that stands in my way.
I have never been written about
but will soon be -
in history and in the minds of masses
who would look up to me
and say, "if she could, I can too."