something calls

 

something in the roots is calling me
i feel like back then, back where
there was no sensation of fear, 
i could breathe:
the sole thought of being in nature
is instantly relaxing,
a comforting place within my mind
telling me to come back
the senses go beyond my nature.

nature is not a place to visit

forest bound
bits and bops here and there
tree bark; a cinnamon tree i peel layers off
and feel the history run again beneath my feet
as if something deep inside,
hidden well within the moss,
and its eternal waterfalls
was calling my name, your name,
all of our names
into a single form of consciousness.
can we try and leave without the ego?
is it worth remembering how
"nature is not a place to visit,
it is a home" as a daily mantra?
what's the song the forest sings?
what's the sea's hypothesis?
are they alone at night,
or is it insincere to think
the moon and the sun are human forms?

writing what you want

 it's true, they're all right. there's no point to writing creatively if you can't write what you want. i'm trying to make peace with that. i feel it in my body when i try to sit down with what i want to say. it's not that anyone has to hear it, or maybe the people who wanted to listen are already here. or gone, maybe they had enough. either way, i long for the time where i am at peace with writing for myself more than any other thing. i started writing to understand life, now i write to understand death. the death that every time i try to face makes me fall deeper and deeper into a state of despair, from which i wish to come out but fail. it feels like the walls are slippery and i keep holding on to a hope that doesn't exist. there's something in me, though that asks me to keep writing, keep coming, keep showing up. the last thing you lose is your faith, regardless of how many pills you take. or how many hours you sleep. or who you love, fuck, kill, hate. none of that matters if you can't write your fears from the bottom of your bottomless soul because you're scared of what someone else my think. knowledge is a precious commodity and understanding oneself takes a lifetime (or more). my goal in life is to think i've not lived in vain.

samsara

i don't want to live with my fear of death 
like it's the unwanted guest at my table,
who is in my fridge, eating my food, 
corroding my mind in every waking second.
i want the paradox of living and not living
to sit next to me on my couch, 
drink tea and chat,
converse in a way that is fruitful.
if i let my fear and hopelessness over death
take me with it,
i will not only not have lived this life,
but wasted it to find nothing.
no one will benefit from my gut wrenching thoughts and nightmares,
especially me.
no one will come inside and trim the weeds.
even if it pains me,
there's a reality to face,
a new way of seeing life,
a question that will remain unanswered by my consciousness,
and can only hope
my soul bares the burden
and maybe, in my sleep,
my second-self will soothe me.