What a great heaviness it is

to be an empath

surviving in a world

that is often discovered to be

egocentrically brutal

as well as incessant.

To be a collection of reticent voices

in this world full of such

powerful shrilling white noise.

To be determined as weak

by those who know not of

the very resilience required

that can only be formed

out of true humility.

I can hear the way someone is able

to hold the notes in a harmony

like the angels themselves sing

within them from the heavens.

I can see the way a light shines

in the corners of someone's eyes

as they hold the hand of a patient

knowing that is exactly where they're meant to be.

I can feel each graceful stroke

of an artist's paintbrush

where their body and whole being meets.

And all these moments,

I admit,

have made me envious

of their absolute surety.

I have become so engulfed by a life

that is not made to be my own.

Wanting desirably to have the assurance

of a solid purpose like theirs.

But in doing so, I have lost focus

of the recognizable aspects of myself.

Aspects that deserved to be admired

by my very own senses.

For, I can hear the way the softness of my voice

is able to ease the mind

of a troubled soul.

I see the way a light shines

in my child's eyes when she looks at me

before her.

I can feel each graceful stroke

of the pencil I hold where

my body and whole being meets.

And all of these moments,

I must admit,

are just the beginning

to what is my surety.

I can't really mark that exact moment

when I found it was my own hand

holding the image of myself

over the flames of a burning pit.

Watching as this thick, dark smoke

clouds over me in a blinding veil

and the edges of the image begin

to slowly curl in at the tips.

And I know

if I let the heat,

that's resonating off all of my insecurities,

lift yet another finger from the

grasp I have on my image

is just another step further

to letting it fall to be consumed

by the blaze.

And I know

I should pull my arm back to me

and save me from myself,

but I seem to be bound by a force

calling to me deep from the pit,

drawing me closer and closer

with the simplest of words,

"I am not good enough."

The law of energy states

that energy can neither be

created nor destroyed;

rather, it can only be

transformed or transferred

from one form to another.

I beg the question

if this could also reflect

the human soul's expression

of pain.

And though this would seem that

we are fated to the burden of a force

much bigger than ourselves,

there still is a transcendental irony

in the way we have the ability to

transform what would be considered

inevitable.

I've become a victim of the night

the predators they howl my name.

Heads raised up with their pride,

a haunting silence in their taunting stride,

waiting for me to come their way.

Once the dark night hides the sun,

the greatest devourers have temporarily won.

For within the depths of my mind they stay.

All at once, they swarm, they stalk.

Overwhelming me, encircling me,

as I start to fall.

I'm caving in and I want to break

to protect myself I ease into a mindless escape.

Then, as the dark night slowly turns to day,

they leave me to be left in this vacant state.

When I arise from my wake,

a foolish relief to find,

there's a short absence from their taunting stride.

But, once the dark night hides the sun,

again I hear the predators ignite their cry,

and I've become a victim of the night.

Sometimes, I fear that the passing of time

will be the ruin of all that makes up of me.

I hope not to be the consequence of

destruction by distraction-

fading away within the fleeting of life.

Sometimes, I fear my

responsibilities becoming like a weapon

for involuntary manslaughter.

I do not want each day to erode my soul to dust.

All of what I am

becoming the ground beneath

conformity.

I do not want hazy eyes in a dazed filled life,

each step I take almost simultaneously.

I do not wish the world to warp

my individuality.

I want to devote to my own

ideal of integrality.

And remember all of the

persistent passions

that have coursed relentlessly

through my veins,

morphing all that's evolved to me.

I am the one who is

always waiting.

Always anticipating

for what is to come

or what may come.

Waiting to become

better,

bigger,

than who I feel that I am.

Stronger than what

I think that I am.


Never fully comfortable with,

never really secure in,

what is present in

the moment.

I wait with

this expectation that

there must always be more

than what there really is.

That I must be more

than what I am.


There sets a purpose,

an endeavor,

before me.

And then, once more,

there's another again.

I anticipate for each and every

opportunity and probability,

then I wait- once more-

for what's to follow.

It's the story of a life

that has an inevitable ending

but with no one

foreseen wrapped up conclusion.


And maybe,

I could see this as just

my adaptability and ability

for such impeccable growth.

Yet, while I wait,

here plays out

each sequence of my world

that races right on past me

before I can even savor

the pure fulfillment,

the true wholeness,

of just one single moment.

And how that precise moment,

in a single instant,

can be gone.