That’s Permissible.

permission

If your footprints are crooked like a gypsy soul, a wandering outcast shoved off the linear road

If your true north falters, and the destination obscures until it’s less an arrival, more a wrong turn

That’s permissible.

If your heart won’t contain all the wild inside, the fracas, the clutter, the imperfect divide

If your spirit is grounded, wings clipped in flight, but still dares to hope in the waning moonlight

That’s permissible.

If your pierced liquid eyes unmask a counterfeit smirk, and there’s no other defense to whitewash the dirt

If your tear tracks have withered, but the stains have adhered, a salty reminder, an obstinate smear

That’s permissible.

If your bone wearied legs are slogging through mire, so each tiptoe forward keeps stoking the fire

If your white-knuckled hands grope for an anchor to sustain through life’s eddies, its swells and its breakers

That’s permissible.

If your nights of stargazing, of groaning for impact, seem more like illusions that exist in abstract

If your mornings of stillness, remote from the world, are the last cords of sanity that haven’t unfurled

That’s permissible.

If your senses are stirring and coming alive to the flicker of daybreak, the passion revived

If your love can’t be tarnished, trampled or tamed, and you refuse to view kindness as just a cliche

Hey…

That’s permissible too.

So, listen. Receive. It’s time we all knew

To be real is permissible. And that is our truth.

 

Rawness Is My Jam.

rawness

I can’t resist a person who exposes the jagged edges, broken fragments, delicate trimmings and fiery sparks of their own chaotic soul.

Rawness is my jam.

I’m drawn to the eight-year-old who’s emotive eyes aren’t afraid to shed tears, who’s expressive smile is on the constant verge of laughter.

Rawness is my jam.

I’m enchanted by the teenager in monochromatic clothing and a mane of wild dreadlocks who’s razor blade scars are inked over in art.

Rawness is my jam.

I’m enamored with the girl persisting under the weight of social stigmas, feminine ideals and media labels, who’s inner voice refuses to accept that she’s other…unequal…subpar.

Rawness is my jam.

I’m wonderstruck from the coffee shop romantic who’s suffocated words become poetry, who’s suppressed pain is funneled into creativity.

Rawness is my jam.

I notice them. I stare. They are fearlessly authentic. I watch them reclaim the windswept debris of their spirits. Undaunted. Unshaken. Making sense of the rubble, affirming beauty in the fallout.

Rawness is my jam.

I hear them testing out their vocal chords, tuning up their heartstrings, rehearsing for the anthem to rouse our weary culture.

Rawness is my jam.

I feel them pressing into the secret, sacred fissures they’ve been warned to squelch inside, peeling off the artifice to reveal a human underneath.

Rawness is my jam.

I observe. I listen. I fall true…mad…deep in love with the quiet strength, fierce honesty, unabashed resolve and soft intensity mirrored on their faces, etched upon their hearts.

Rawness is my jam.

I learn from the example and derive meaning from the narrative. I muse over the artless candor, the radical abandon. And feel my own sidelined passion stir within.

Rawness is my jam.

I abruptly grasp the message now. In a sudden burst, I know. It’s more real than anything I’ve touched before. It’s bold and loud and new. I sense their heads all nodding. There is no place for shame. Together, we march forward into truth…and mess…and free.

Rawness is our jam.

Because I’m Feeling Poetic And Stuff…

…this one’s called

Release My Rambling Soul.


When everything hurts

And this life stops making sense

When the demon flirts

And you’ve grown weak from the pretense.

***

When calling it quits

No longer sounds too extreme

You’re stuck on the fritz

 And finished with rose-colored daydreams.

***

The purpose you crave

Has never seemed to break through

It ebbs like a wave

That fierce passion your heart once knew.

***

Your doubts and distrust

Always demand the last word

And hope turns to dust

Until your perceptions are blurred.

***

But there’s a faint spark

You’ve been repressing too long

Which lights up the dark

And hums the rhythm to a new song.

***

You’ll wander too far

And you’ll question each crossroad

It’s just who you are

A free-spirit aching to explode.

***

Feisty, brazen, tough

That mask you’re scared to remove

But call your own bluff

Because there’s nothing left to prove.

***

Love, honesty, trust

They’ll complicate your whole world

But feel them, you must

So a heart of flesh can unfurl.

***

When the cleansing tears

Mend that brokenness inside

 Just shake off those fears

And spread your rambling soul open wide.

That Time I Realized There’s Stuff I Don’t Know.

I need answers. To everything in life. And even when I don’t know, I feign the knowledge anyway because that’s a safer option than just conceding ignorance. It’s a Millennial mindset for sure, but it’s also enmeshed in the human condition.

Despite our fragilities and fallibilities, we take extreme measures to convince others—and ourselves—that we’re superior…smarter…self-sufficient…terminally unique.

That’s me on the outside. Or rather, what I aim to project. Always right. Always in control. Always prepared with a rapid-fire solution, justification or explanation. On the inside though, I know better.

Concealed beneath an I-got-this exterior, I’m fighting a current of unanswered questions, unresolved what ifs and unshakable insecurities. They ebb just below the surface of my impassive facade, but they’re more tangible—more real—than any plastered-on pretense I could offer the world. That’s an intimidating admission. But it’s also redeeming.

more-questions-than-answers

I used to assume that logic and intellect were all I ever needed to survive. That if I could outsmart another person or outmaneuver a situation, I’d remain a step ahead of the wounds they might inflict. I’d be secure in my own detachment.

There’s one tactical error in this approach though—because outmaneuvering turns into overthinking. Which clouds judgment, aggravates stress and impedes taking action. Turns out, this negative cycle doesn’t make you a guru at life. Nope, it leaves you passive, anxious and still drowning in uncertainty.

So how does redemption fit into this equation? Well, there’s freedom in confessing  “I don’t know.” Acknowledging that perhaps there’s no formula, guidemap or eureka moment to make sense of the complexities which define our existence. That perhaps it’s acceptable—or…gasp…normal—to have no idea what we’re doing.

And perhaps the most we can require of ourselves is to navigate each crossroad one learning experience at a time.

Because answers are overrated.

But inquiring and investigating—now that’s the adventure.

not-everything-can-be-understood