~
“My reasons for writing had to be my own, divorced from expectation.
There would be no reward.”
Ta-Nehisi Coates, “We Were Eight Years in Power”
<>
certain words, hers, previous unknown, or, better,
not yet your own,
acquire your devotion, all the my oh my of possessed tenses,
words ironic, for they are the shoving of contrary adhesive separators,
AC/DC currents running together, a single physical electric stabbing,
owning you, but gulfing away those customized,
prized illusions yet kept,
freeing finally by focusing on the single commandment that matters:
Expect nothing, but write, knowing the only reward,
is the satisfying of self-imposed goals and conditions,
that are will always be,
always,
one more step and edit away from attainable, maybe.
My reasons, my illogical reasonings, admixture of anguished highs and loving lowlights,
a porridge of seeds that need burying to be borne,
in soil of a soiled soul, write to breathe, write to see, write to taste,
write to smell, write to hear my voice say,
not good enough,
even when it might be, just, barely, though that bar is a
moving target,
always
a perpetual notch too high.
My reward for acknowledging, accepting, no denying, freeing, finally,
There would be no reward
11:02 Sabbath
February 22, 2020
from deep in the internal confessional
