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.