Lines marked so neatly
Parallel to each other
On my leg horizontally
Each of them redder

Like pencils lined up
Neatly in a row.
Without any breakup
All perfectly so

Some are faded
Some fresher
Some lighter
And some harsher

Drawn carefully
To bleed and stain
Makes me have safety
To feel the pain

I am not a writer, I 'm a prisoner in my head,                                              
                                                                ­                                          
compelled to think, to write, what is being said                                                             ­       
                                                                ­                                                
Feeling too much, it comes pouring out of me.                                          
                                                                ­                                            
bleeding onto pages, demons exorcised from me

Oftentimes I wonder what I look like through their eyes.
Do they see the same cracks I do?

The quiet hesitation, shattered by restless thought.
The way my hands sometimes tremble, much like my voice.
The way my eyes water when a burden bears much weight.
The flaws etched deep into a body I struggle to love.
The weight of hopelessness pulling me deeper and deeper.

Or is there something more-
Something I've forgotten how to recognize.

A light that doesn't flicker even in the most powerful winds.
A smile that brightens the day of others caught in the dark.
A loving person who yearns for the heart of their own.
A hardworking partner who they can rely on.
A shoulder steady and strong, always there when needed.

Oftentimes I wonder what I look like through their eyes.
And maybe- just maybe,
It's time I learn to see myself like that too.

Un-bridle shoes  
                             You’ve never worn
They’ve no memory of
Steps you’ve taken

Use laces that have never been tied
                             Walk without conception
                       Observe without association
                                        Evolve without dependence

Though the world may rage,
like gilded nightingales caught in a cage,
our souls can still sing softly.

The earth may crack with no footfall to faucet,
the fault doesn't always fall with the wind,
sometimes, the storm begins within.

This is why the search begins,
beneath the surface, where the silence knows our name,
where the echoes go to live.

I wake up every morning,
Filled with life,
Flowing with vigor,
Beaming with enthusiasm.

The day is here for me to create,
A total blank canvas for my own creation,
An open page of endless possibilities,
Just ready for me to make the first move.

I could...
Paint a self portrait,
Create a new dance step,
Model something out of clay,
Write love letters to myself,
Endless energy for creative play.

But first, let's get the basics out of the way.
Breakfast, cup of tea and the news,
Teeth, ****, then shower,
Some light housework and errands,
Decide what to cook for dinner.

I do a quick run to the supermarket,
Pick up some lunch on the way home,
Put on that load of washing,
Send that email I need to write,
And get my dinner prep done.

Exhausted by all this running around,
I need to recharge.
Brew a quick cuppa,
Put my feet up to rest,
Take a quick 10min power nap,
And then the day is mine to create.

...What was I going to do again?
Oh yes! Spontaneous day of creation,
Harness my relentless optimism for the day,
Surrender to the flow of magical possibilities,
Channel it into active, positive modes of creation.

But the time in my day is getting limited,
Enthusiasm is starting to wane,
And my momentum is being lost.
I start to think about all the mess it will create,
And the thought of cleaning it up.
  
....All my creative enthusiasm is gone.
Silenced by my default daily activities,
Routine and discipline are my trauma response,
Fear of being judged and labelled as lazy,
Pleasure and creativity gets lost along the way.

I get stuck in my need to present perfectly,
Making sure everything is in order before I can start my day,
Chores before play,
Hard work before reward,
Vegetables before dessert,
I am pre-programmed that enjoyment is a bargaining chip.

But that rule is a silly made up illusion,
A trauma response inherited from our parents.
Humans are naturally creative beings,
Creativity, joy and play are our default,
Our true catalyst for feeling alive.

Life in its beauty is all about creation,
It flows through our veins as magic,
Unable to be captured or stored,
It needs to be embraced in the moment,
Regardless if your bed has been made or not.

Creation is something I have to commit myself to,
A nourishing practice that fulfils my soul,
A rejuvenating outlet that brings me back to life,
A daily non-negotiable for my well being,
A purpose greater than working the 9 to 5.

Because if we aren't creating,
What is the point of life?
Eat, sleep, marry and pay taxes?
That isn't the life I expected for myself,
This won't be the life I create for myself.

i wanted horns, i wanted a tail,
i never wanted wings
because i grew roots first