Am I insane?
Or just human,
just feeding off the tragedy of my body?
Who defines these things?
Who ascribes meaning to my life?
I, alone, must step away from the raw cuts.
I must turn away from the hem of life,
walk to the center, where the threads
are thick & filled with stretching, with hope.
I must be meaningful to myself.
I must be joyful in spite of.
Because what will spite me will not end.
What will spite me will have no name.
Spite has no face & will come & come again,
like the tides & I can stand there
for the salt, the detritus & their depth.
Or I can turn to face the land,
the trees, the birds, the wandering grass,
the slow silver river, see my footprints
& let them guide me back home,
to the quiet in my breast,
to the familiarity in my hurt,
to my tattered mat & cold fireplace
& the warmth of knowing
that I survived another day.
I will pin this on my wall.
Really love this poem.
It speaks about motivation.
And I have gotten to know that inspiring and motivating oneself conquers a lot of sad emotions. And provides room for hope that there is another day.
It really an amazing line.
Thank you very much. 🖤
there's violence lurking within this poem and it has a raw emotional heft.
when it comes to redrafting I'd suggest looking at some of your repetitions. Repetition can be a good way to enforce an idea, but sometimes it reflects a thought being worked through during the writing, and would benefit from the thought being clarified and needless repetition disappearing.
Thank you @stuartcturnbull for reading and for the writing advice. I appreciate it. 🖤