we were all born crying.
wailing, raw pink lungs
gasping,
choking, on new filtered air.
but maybe, we cry not because
of a cold chill
and fluorescent state of confusion,
but simply because we've been born once again.
maybe we cry because our past lives
will never repeat themselves-
no more grandkids, the splintered back porch with the hissing screen door,
no more ten day vacations at the spare house in Spain,
no more dates at a drive in, the 1981 firebird where the windows would always steam,
no handprints along glass,
footprints on the subway.
no more
"welcome home" kisses from your dog,
"goodnight" kisses from your wife.
when we are born,
maybe we cry because
in that simple movement toward new light
our hand lingers along the wall behind us,
and flips off the switch.
every painful lesson,
heartbreak,
first times,
failiure.
all of it recycled;
repetition that never comes to end.
maybe, we cry because
we have forgotten the words
of the song we know we've heard.
the one you once danced to
at your wedding;
the one they cried to, at your funeral.
maybe we cry because
we have forgotten the color of the ink
scratched on our past suicide notes.
maybe, because
we think the gunshot did not take us
to heaven.
but there are angels
and they don't wear halos and stroke harps-
they roam the earth.
instead of showing you the light,
they teach how to form the flame inside yourself.
we were all born crying.
and it is not from loss or fear itself;
not because our soul is homesick
for the house it can't recall-
we cry for the warmth of our mothers worn hands.
the new rhythm slow in her chest,
amber hair falling
from the foreign slope of her shoulder;
we are just one soul on this journey
body to body, heart to heart.
maybe we cry because
in that moment, we ourselves realize
that each life is, a miracle.
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
we were all born crying.
wailing, raw pink lungs
gasping,
choking, on new filtered air.
but maybe, we cry not because
of a cold chill
and fluorescent state of confusion,
but simply because we've been born once again.
maybe we cry because our past lives
will never repeat themselves-
no more grandkids, the splintered back porch with the hissing screen door,
no more ten day vacations at the spare house in Spain,
no more dates at a drive in, the 1981 firebird where the windows would always steam,
no handprints along glass,
footprints on the subway.
no more
"welcome home" kisses from your dog,
"goodnight" kisses from your wife.
when we are born,
maybe we cry because
in that simple movement toward new light
our hand lingers along the wall behind us,
and flips off the switch.
every painful lesson,
heartbreak,
first times,
failiure.
all of it recycled;
repetition that never comes to end.
maybe, we cry because
we have forgotten the words
of the song we know we've heard.
the one you once danced to
at your wedding;
the one they cried to, at your funeral.
maybe we cry because
we have forgotten the color of the ink
scratched on our past suicide notes.
maybe, because
we think the gunshot did not take us
to heaven.
but there are angels
and they don't wear halos and stroke harps-
they roam the earth.
instead of showing you the light,
they teach how to form the flame inside yourself.
we were all born crying.
and it is not from loss or fear itself;
not because our soul is homesick
for the house it can't recall-
we cry for the warmth of our mothers worn hands.
the new rhythm slow in her chest,
amber hair falling
from the foreign slope of her shoulder;
we are just one soul on this journey
body to body, heart to heart.
maybe we cry because
in that moment, we ourselves realize
that each life is, a miracle.
