Me to Myself

Show me

that I am confident and fragile and whole.

 

Show me

that I am infinite and gentle, filled with sadness that knows itself

only as hope.

 

Show me

that I am born from the ground up and than I am not to be afraid of laying down my

leaves and weathering my way

through winter.

 

Show me

that your life is no less real or vivid.

 

Show me

that the colors that paint your sky are born from the same palate as mine even if the

painter’s hands

have different whorls.

 

Show me

that we are better together.

 

Show me

that the impossible is possible and that the ground can rip up from our feet at any moment

and swallow us

entirely.

 

Show me this

even if you are no longer standing,

even if you are on your knees,

because I know that gravity is a great and unhurried force,

and that the oppression of silence is

always invisible.

 

Throw off those cloaks, throw off those shackles

so that you can hold them up to my face,

so that you can place them in my hands, and I can feel the weight of a

single voice.

 

Show me

that which cannot be seen.

 

Show me

the tired bones that rest inside you.

 

Show me

that flightless heart of yours, the wingless bird that cries out

from your ribcage,

desperate to be heard.

 

Show me

that these bodies are not trenches and that love is not war.

 

Show me

your scars

and show me

the ones you’ve painted on yourself.

 

Show me every ache and every laugh,

every maybe and every perhaps.

 

Show me your dreams so that I can show you mine,

all of them,

even the nightmares.

 

Show me

that we are everything

and

nothing.

 

Show me

that the beginning is not

the end, that there was never a true beginning, only

a continuance of sound.

 

Show me

that this land is changing, growing, fading, dying, surviving,

changing again unto itself,

nothing more that clay,

nothing less than art.

 

Show me

the catastrophes of eruption and the brilliance of destitution

as these words escape from me

of their own accord.

 

Show me

the glitter of tomorrow come today and the glint

of the yesterdays

that should have been long gone by now.

 

Show me

that you are not out to get me,

 

And show me

that I am not out to get you.

 

Show me

that hands are capable of everything,

most of all compassion.

 

Show me

how not to let my living destroy others.

 

Show me

what wisdom looks like in blue eyes, miniature oceans; let me know

with some subtle looks and

teethy smiles -- destiny has a crooked, mountainous grin.

 

Show me

how not to kill you.

 

Show me

that I am nothing and that

I am everything.

 

Show me

that I am the words I speak,

and the words I write,

and all the huge strange thoughts that patter around my head like rain,

keeping their own secrets.

 

Show me

the world,

even if it is nothing more than words.

 

And let the world

see me as I am.

 

Words and all.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world

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