Alive I am in this body in this life
and although I see through story and strife
I illuminate my shadows and forge my way
through tangles of uncertain days
And in ways I think why
have I not just arrived
at the place I expected to be
With the land and the dough
and the titles to show
with a homestead that's perfectly run?
Why is it that still I'm just simple and real
with a list that's only half done
So where is the feeling
of arriving at being
of presenting the world with ME
Is she hiding? Or waiting? Or side stepping, skating?
Pretending to need to know more?
Is she scared of the walls and the
candy striped halls
of society now in it's pretentious malls?
Where is the ME, where is the YOU
that's says who the fuck cares
if I've done algebra two
What about the ME in the middle
of working on little
things that make hearts go aglow
and seeds that are planted
and small wishes granted
and words that help others grow
what about days where the magic
stories of self are a fog
where the dishes go dirty
and laundry's a heap
where's the beauty in you on the days
you feel cheap
Where's the beauty in us if we don't grant
success until debts are maxed out and our
credit is fat, when our school's made out
yet our jobs are a bitch
and we're still not connecting to Earth.
What's success in my skin
if I'm expecting to win
something that was never a race.
What's glory in the eyes
if I'm living disguised
and not willing
to be in this place.
Every moment a muscle
worked stronger by reaching
and weaving together in grace
and in grieving
reclaiming the normal unglamorous me
as daily life sculpts what we
are supposed to be
WE already are works
in exquisite progress,
a malleable, unfinished success.