Fully clothed from head to toe,
bare I lie with my own sorrow,
this sadness that has followed me
in aeroplanes across the sea.
I wish to draw honest breaths,
and meet my precious life afresh.
I’ve tried and tried to keep this pain
away from me, to my own gain:
I have sung Luthario’s song,
and found myself loving the wrong;
I’ve allowed distraction to wreak
havoc in both my work and sleep.
I have let entire days
burn away in the fire’s blaze
singing songs of suffering,
ignoring the joy life can bring.
Yet I read pensées written by
Krishnamurti, an Indian guy,
and there’s this special thing he said
one day, and now it’s in my head:
“you are the suff’ring, there is not
separation, you are the thought!”
And now I think I start to see
just what this sentences means to me:
it is absurd to put away
this sadness for another day–
there’s beauty in communion,
in an eternal union
between this guy I think I am
and this pain within my hands.
But if I am the thing itself,
what’s there to do? Can I be helped?
There are answers my mind craves,
yet instead of being enslaved,
I’m going to run with this one:
that there’s nothing I can become
that will get rid of all this hurt
that I’d so like to trade, or worse.
So here I go, please wish me luck
as I enter a living ruck,
and reduce the space between
the real world and my own dreams.