At times her crazy feels like a particular brand of crazy
Unique to her
Soul and ego battling it out
Ego bows to soul
Held in the complete embrace of the heart

after all's been said
and done
you’re the only one who got it.
How's that feel?

I must come back to this Self - again and again.
What is the thing that thinks it is tired?
Am I tired? No. Now,
I no longer give it a name.
Now, I no longer make believe
it is a second or one other.
This is the only sin - I see it now.
The original sin. It is
the turning fully away.
A door seems to shut and
even suction into place with a slurp.
Like rubber heavy duty caulk
blocking everything from everything.
And still, I am here. As beams
of light shooting out from all edges.
I pretend I am it and I give it a name
and I sort of kind of in a way -
step into it. Just to see.
Just to feel and somehow play
with all there ever is to be.
I can’t see really anything. Only
blindly I seek. Blinking in then out -
groping, reaching, jumping there and there then over there.
And I begin to remember that this really couldn’t be
what I seem to have been fooling my Self
this life is what I see. And I start
to look for a way to get out and come home.
Done with chronicling and conquering. Now
only prodigal stories gain this attention.
It isn’t time. That’s the last thing
one gets. It’s forever that’s wasted.

These little pieces of myself will all burn away
After looking again and again
After taking it all to be real for so long
Not really looking at it
only just wearing it
even though it felt scratchy and ill-fitted

Now to give it a new sort of attention
the kind it gives to its concept of god
Not curious but
critical and cynical and carefully contemplative
the little pieces don’t get hurt feelings
or bent out of shape
cuz they lose it
They don’t cry or get depressed
Only they fall away
like overripe fruit
never picked and eaten
They are not what I am
Only the pieces that make up
who I once thought myself to be

I was never abused or depressed
Never victimized and alone
I was never ugly or stupid
or worthless or a hot mess
a **** or a lame
useless and insane
These pieces aren’t like a puzzle
See that’s what I never was told

I am whole already
Completely alive and free to discard
those adjectives that I don’t care
to describe this being
Which in reality can’t be any
or even all of those bits mashed-up together
Miracles can’t be picked apart and
named and labeled as what they are not
And a mirror only reflects
what might see it first

How can there be
what is clearly not seen
when I peer back into this so-called me?
So actually the truth I can see is
I can’t really look and see this I am
but truly can only be this I am
Because when I look back and see
all the pieces they say I am
the only conclusion must be
that these so-called pieces of me
are not at all in reality
that which I am

floating around
just realising i am the afterthought
not the initial
essential
first thing to hand
front of your mind
that is where ego resides
but why must i demand
to be there
the centre of it all?
i expect too highly
i expect that of myself
but to expect that of others
is cruel

I'm not the first survivor,
Just yours

Don't revive me,
Let me be

Your adoring pitiful pitiable survivor,
I'm not the first to be left behind,
Not the first displaced by ego

I've accepted my cessation,
A long lost love that once was perfection,
Soiled by your foolish ignorant indiscretions
Beaten by your cowardice, conniving, ache and craving.

I once tasted your good nature,
Drank in your laughter and longing,
But now I rest,
Deposited,
Worn out by over a decade of cardiopulmonary resuscitation

Don't trade my peace for your conscience
Reviving a love that should have died a decade ago,
Along with my ego

Don't revive me,
Just let me be

I'm not the first survivor.
Just yours