She’s ready for a new chapter.
But is the new chapter ready for her?
She’s punk again as expected.
The cuts are holes for light to shine, from the lightning and thunder inside.

The plasters are lovers covering the wounds.
The Avocado for comfort and health.
The only way in which she takes care.
The rest is filled with beer and pain au chocolat.

For the pain, the discomfort, uncertainties.
The chains.
The chains remain.
The brain and tying ends together, pressure.
She’s getting ready.
Always getting ready.
But is she ever?

At least for the new chapter, the moment, she tries.
But it doesn’t feel right.
A little better after getting it together, over and over.
She’s never done.

You solve one thing and you mess up another, overwhelmed and hypersensitive.
Pressure from activity.

Pressure on me so I mess up things again.
The rain keeps falling.
And I keep messing around.

I am the stormy weather.
I try to blow dry.
But it takes forever and then I just blow off steam.
And it all keeps going on and on.
Things are wrong, things are too much.

It’s slippery.
It’s runny.
It’s a lot of pressure.
And somehow I find a way to dance in the rain at least one moment.
But after that I drop in a puddle.
And I have to crawl out and find a way home.
So I can close my eyes so I can dry up a little bit.
So I can be somewhat ok again.

But it keeps happening and it keeps raining.
And I can’t fly.
The rain is too heavy.
So I drop and mess it up.
The task.
One after another.
One thing solved and another failing.

I am falling and crawling.
And I can’t get out of this cycle, this puddle.

So I spread my arms and lie there for a while.
Until I’m able to get up again.
Start all over.
When it’s raining all over my body, heavy, steamy, slippery.
Breathe in and out.
Heavy stuff.
Heavy rain.

Thousands of eyes,
looking at my sleeping body.
After my false awakening,
I saw them,
still trapped in the dream.
They were recording
my every painful breath.

Eyes without eyelids,
dense, dark air.
I became an unexpected glitch
in the imposed system.
They just didn’t know
what to do with me.

The spiders around my bed
were watching over
the meaning of my existence.

I had only a deep need
to find a place
for all elements
of the broken vessel,
the black pupils,
the witnesses
to my faltering walk.

I am not yet a butterfly.
I am the caterpillar
in a long ego tunnel.

Thomas was right.

To heal,
I must keep going
and going
until all becomes
one seamless whole,
ready to transform
into a flying being,
free from the chain of wounds,
sacrificed
on the altar
of broken Ego.