Healer — A Poem on Emotional Labor

I collect others' karmic dust
cure &&& heal the unconscious
like a vacuum, I suction up
trials &&& trauma that disrupt
daily lives leaving them in disrepair
disturbances that dare to keep
them on the edge of their toes
like volcanoes verging to erupt.
Then wring my hands til blood
runs circling the sink accusing
everything but the boundaries
I don't put up, to protect the
sacred sanctity of my own sanity,
a counterintuitive cycle that needs
to complete, so that it leads to the
death of this dance that defeats.
Nothing compared to the joy it depletes.

 

All this urgency to be alone,
incriminates me, inundating.
Arming me with emergency.
I am an aquamarine watercolour
dream, edging on the verge of
obscene. A tattooed, poke & stick
masterpiece cavalcade of
permanent ink. Contradictory to
the notion that everything is fleeting.
I am overwhelmed by the deafening of my own heart, that keeps on beautifully beating. With my expectations bleeding, I soothe my spirited sanity by silently shouting at the unseen that has me seething.
Dancing dangerously off-beat, I march to my own rhythmic remedy. Two-step maniacally between the melody, of my own unbecoming elegy. A eucharistic eulogy of Euphrates


Incapacitated by the ultimate finality of an apocalypse that's nearing.

Bananas.

When I was young &
inexperienced, arrogance
fooled me into believing
I was ingenious.

Life was a box of chocolates,
like nothing could be easier.
But now that I'm older,
I've learned humility.
The more I grow,
the less I know.
With ev'ry turn,
there's lots to learn.

The spoils
of youth, though rich
& luxurious are not as
bright as the wisdom
I've earned, like learning
to be worriless. Wars waged
and battles braved, I've
swallowed my pride.
Release the rebel and
silence survives.

I filled in
the chip on my shoulder,
and prevented it from
becoming a boulder.
And matter of fact,
I've no monkeys at
my back. It's bananas
to think I used to let
them attack.