the limbs of my
character self
are shaking
just about dying
to drop
their socially acceptable moulds
litter the ground
with old habits
and in their places
grow
luscious healthy new sprigs
of enlightened perspective
a resurgence of ideas
death of the old
and outdated roles
a chance for
revitalised spirit selves
to dance upon the graves
of the old norms gone sour
now is the season
she screams
step up mulch away the debris
of your momentous miscalculation
of power
reclaim the roots
that the greedy shifting world
seeks to devour

to be...
something
an ache felt so deeply in my soul
I feel tethered to the yearning and desperation
a toxic dependence on the weight of the idea
that we must strive to be someone
with a career or vocation that implies the very essence of our character
that sums up our individual meaning
and is enough to simply state
who we are
what we do
all in one being
when really
in the end
you look at graves
and see words like
loving friend
dear sister
beloved daughter
and almost think that that is enough
in the end
to simply be a someone to someone special
and not what the world finds acceptable to label you as
who you are
what must you amount to
what you decide to be

in the end
being a someone
sounds more complex
than simply being
someone
to someone.

change is a process.

**** the part of you that you dislike,
and save the rest.

...has to be more to oneself.

more layers
more colours

more lines felt
than are sometimes blithely expressed,
perceived by ourselves

more to you,
uncovered in darkness

more to me
in this humble lightness

some truth to the lies...
  some clearings
amidst
smouldering fires.

more.