This poem is dedicated to myself and to all of my readers. ❤
“The places where you have the biggest challenges in your life become the places where you have the most to give, if you do your inner work.” –Tracy McMillan
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I pray
that the pain of your today
becomes the pride of your tomorrow.
I pray
that the struggle of your today
becomes the strength of your tomorrow.
I pray
that the torment of your today
becomes the triumph of your tomorrow.
I am not simply good,
nor am I simply evil
I am both…
or, perhaps,
I am neither.
Today,
I can listen to the same songs
about toxic relationships
that used to trigger
an ache of recognition
and only feel
a remembrance of that ache,
a compassion for my past self.
It is in these small moments
(which really aren’t small at all)
that I see how far
I’ve come.
Sometimes,
when I’m feeling angry
that I put so much work
into forgiveness
and still
never got justice,
God whispers in my ear:
“Mercy
is the deepest
Justice.”
My logical mind
is resistant,
and doesn’t know
what the hell that means.
But,
to my soul,
it feels true.
I’m still learning
how not to think I’m wrong
just because I’m different
This poem is a response to/continuation of my last poem 🙂
Then again,
maybe I’d want
to be a mixture
in some ways
and a compound
in others.
I can’t deny
that love
often changes us
fundamentally;
and
depending on
the type of change,
that can be a really
beautiful
thing.
P.S. If there happen to be any grammar nerds reading this who are willing and able to help me…..
Assuming we’re following standard American English rules, how would you structure the last sentence of the poem in terms of commas and semicolons? I was pretty stumped there. 😀
I finally see the mean inner voices for what they are:
part of the family.
I’m never going to eradicate them.
Fear,
self-doubt,
self-criticism,
and depression
will always be in the car
in the road trip of my life–
a month from now,
a year from now,
ten years from now.
And that’s okay.
They can be here–
as long as they know their place.
They sit in the back.
They sit shotgun.
They are not the driver.
I repeat:
They are not the driver.
*Credit where credit is due: this poem is a paraphrase of a part of Big Magic, by Elizabeth Gilbert.*
You don’t have to
make your art a window
if you don’t want to.
It doesn’t have to be
transparent enough
for others to look through
and see your naked soul.
If you prefer,
you can make your art a mirror:
still honest and clear enough
for folks to look into
and see their own beauty and suffering,
reflected.
But opaque enough
to protect the parts of yourself
that you decide belong to you,
not the world.
You can tell the truth
without revealing everything,
and that is okay.
I don’t know if I will ever be healed,
but I know that I keep healing.
I don’t know if there is a final E-D,
but I know there is a continuous I-N-G
and
somehow,
that’s just as hopeful.
Don’t aim
to come out of life
unscathed.
Aim
to come out of it
scathed well:
Scathed, but using your scars
for the betterment of others
and yourself
Musings and Music 