November 3, 2018
“I can’t escape the beating question. Where do I belong?” -singer/songwriter Lizz
Wright
The things that have the most effect on me
Are not of this world.
They are the “stuff of make believe”
Of psychosis and psychology
Of neuro-firings and chemical imbalance
Of excuses and “my head in the clouds.”
Or so you say
As you turn your own head away
Too strange
To “out there”
To bizarre
To out-of-the-ordinary
Too disturbing
You can’t see it
You can’t touch it
I can’t explain it
I can’t describe it
I can only point the way
In the stillness
To other realms
Where this is happening now
Where someone a thousand miles away
Is as close as the next room
And someone sitting next to me
Is planets away
It all makes sense to me now
How we are simply sliding through time
Because we think that we have to,
That we have no choice,
That the passage of the hours
Is as regular and steady
As a spring breeze
As predictable
As the hands on our man-made clocks.
But the winds are changing
We have a buffet of experiences
At our disposal
And I have no proof
That any of this exists
I can’t show you pictures
Or birth certificates
Or wedding pictures
Or death records.
I have nothing
But my word
And what good is the word of a girl
In a room full of men?
Rational men
Worldly men
Educated men
Men who want proof
To appease the mind
And yet the mind is
Always searching
Always judging
Always accusing
Never appeased.
When your world fits so tightly around you
You only have room for a quarter of you
Those parts which are validated by a society
Those parts that would go along
With the burning
And the screaming
At the top of their lungs
Lunatic.
“Heretic!”
I’ve seen it again
Trying to be myself
In a village of lies
And false pretenses
And faces turned away
Blood in the snow
Blood in my eyes
Blood surrounding me
As the last thing I see
Besides your face
Forlorn
Regretful
Again and again.
There was nothing
There is never
Anything you can do
To stop me
From slipping away.
Memories of other times
Other worlds
Records gained when in trance
Are meaningless
They have no place
In “our world.”
I have been an outcast
Over and over
Condemned
For my too-big heart
For my strange ways
For my clairvoyance
That flows through the body
In ripples and eddies and churnings
It wants to burst forth
In ecstatic joy
I simply desire
Someone to share this with.
I am scorned
For seeing love
In many forms
Just as deep
Just as profound
This one to the next.
What I really see
Is a circle of familiars
Tall and majestic
Loving and waiting
Shapes, forms, and spheres of light
Holding me in their arms
Guiding me.
This is family.
These are the ones
Who understand.
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