In simple conversations with others, I mute myself unintentionally…
…and it feels involuntary because I’m the type that wants to spill my heart’s contents. I just feel like when I’m around the majority of the people in my life, they have shown me what they really care or don’t care about through rejection, belittlement, invalidation, and sardonic attitudes assaulting what is not just important to me, but also accurate. So like many sensitives, I choose silence while my eyes tear up and my heart aches and my stomach churns and my mind screams.
This became a painful habit of my people pleasing persona. The consequence was volcanic, but luckily for me the pen could channel the magma within and somehow transcend from being raw and unruly to becoming divine and sculpted. It was the first poem I wrote about how much I loved Spring in 5th grade where I realized I was being listened to. It was my first song about friendship where I realized I was being heard. So my poetic career plodded on while traversing through goth culture, my parent’s divorce, going to college early, losing toxic friends and becoming the toxic friend.
I didn’t pick up the pen as much when depression won me over, but I’d reach for it in desperate times to avoid carving into my skin, since that too was belittled, invalidated, mocked, and only a few times led friends to beg me to never go too far.
I’ve teased death a time or two, but our relationship is so much more fulfilling now that my poetic purpose has been embraced by my artistic and fragmented soul. That volcanic energy would cool sometimes and seal the broken parts me rearranged by new philosophies and mysticism that called the pen to my hand again, reminding me, especially when I’m erupting, that poetry is permission to simply be.
Someone standing at the mouth hadthe idea to enter. To go further than light or language couldgo. As they followedthe idea, light and language followed like two wolves—panting, hearing themselvespanting. A shapeless scentin the damp air … Keep going, the idea said. Someone kept going. Deeper and deeper, they sawothers had been there. Others had left […]
How quickly our thrones become cages from a single stroke of misery. Convinced our legacies past are erased by hidden difficulty. Dismay destructs our strengths lighting fire at our feet; weakness become more transparent than the thinnest silk sheets. Don’t forget your prudence in hours of adversity. Unlock your cage and venture to rebuild and […]
On exhausting days when silence and stillness coats over your tired body and weary mind, just listen. Rest is a great reward. – Kris Leliel