A raw poem

I wanted to write a poem about therapy. personal, biographical, spiritual therapy. The two speakers are myself and the Creator of the universe, in a ‘conversation’ from 2008.
It is clear to me that this was the night where self-hatred ended, and I accepted a truth that I found terrifying, that I knew would change every familiar thing, would alter every relationship, would shift every paradigm.
I guess I could say that day was an earthquake in my life. Funny thing is, instead of falling into a chasm/loosing stability, I was brought out of one.

 

Unadorned

 

Lying on the floor alone
naked
deep in a pit of despair.
I’m not useful.
I’m not worthy.
I’m not needed.
No purpose.
Hated.
My heart is shackled.
I cannot love myself, useless and stupid as I am.
There is
no
hope.

Everyone!
Pity me!
I have nothing to give.
Nothing worthy to say.
I am as useless as a peice of rubble.
I have no value.
Maybe,
in your pity,
I will find some acceptance,
or mercy,
to lessen these chains called condemnation.
Pity me,
for I cannot earn
your favour.

I have no abilities.
No redeeming qualities.
Nothing
to make you need me.

 

 

Beloved, listen to me,
let my voice become your reality.
I am the truth.
I will give you my life.
You will be mine, forever securely loved.
Listen!

I don’t need you,
but I want you.

Let your heart hear me!
I don’t need you, but I want you!

Let the shackles be loosed!
I want you!

 

I
will
pursue
you.

When you run, I will follow.
I want you to be mine.
I want you to know my love.

When you hide, I will be with you.
to me
You are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

You are beautiful.

I have never pitied you.
I have never needed you.
I will always want you.
I will always pursue you.
I will always love you.
I will always call you beautiful.

You are mine.

You call yourself rejected,
I call you loved.

You reveal yourself useless,
I declare
that you are wanted.

You confess that you are rubble,
I proclaim

that you

are beautiful.

Not needed,
but wanted.
Beautiful.

Hear my voice,
speaking over you,
into your despair.

 

 

 

Tears.
Pain from a place I thought was locked and buried.
weeping
sobbing.
beauty?

is this possible?
beauty?

Not pity,
but you see beauty?

My tears
begin to wash away
the lies

I can feel a place called home
where it is possible
-all things are possible-
it is possible
to be wanted,
not needed.

My disabilities, inabilities, incapacities and incompetencies
are all
nothing.
They are
rubble.
In a heap
removed
from me.

I am wanted.

not for what I can do.
I am accepted.
not out of pity.
I am beautiful.

I am beautiful.

Despair vanished,
hopelessness fled.
Unadorned,
I have found
beauty.

Joy

I do – dance

I do
dance to a different tune now.
It’s the tune that
God was playing on the inside the whole time,
but
I ignored it
because it meant that I needed deliverance.
Dancing to that tune
would mean
being honest with my parents.
Dancing to that tune
would mean
not using
books and movies and entertainment as escapism
but
paying attention,
instead,
to my heart.
Dancing to this tune
means
asking God where the wild things are…

wanting to live like
the prophets
and disciples
in the bible.
It’s the tune
that Jonah grooved to
in the belly of the fish.
The tune
that Jesus listened to
when he whispered,
“not my will, but thine be done.”
The tune
that was playing
when Eve was created
in the garden.
The tune
that blinded Paul
and raised back to life
the man that fell
on Elisha’s bones.

This
is the tune
I dance to
now.

Dancing this way…
I love it
God’s my Daddy,
and he’s watching
me
twirl and spin,
and be
His
little
child.

I feel
vulnerable.
I feel free.

Grief

Loss

Disintegrated.
Broken trust.
Awkward questions.
My heart has so much sorrow.
Missing connections, broken links
my soul’s companions are distant.
I didn’t choose my family
and I have been wounded by them.
Fellowship is an unknown.
I tried to choose my friends carefully,
but no one has been able to understand my change.
I am not who I was.
Change and growth were strange concepts in my past.
Taboos were the shoes I laced up every day.

I chose to leave it behind.
I dove in.
I made my escape,
getting away from the rut I had lived in.
I left my friends there.
Is it fair that I’m mad at them?
They chose to remain, I made up my mind to go.

Is the person I am now going to sever these ties?
My heart still loves
yet I am not the friend that I was.
Perhaps they miss the old me, while I am missing the new them.

Illustrations point out just what’s wrong with me

 

I think
that relationships are like illustrations.
A work of art
that two people
or more
work on together.

Some illustrations are worked on
more by one person
than the other.
The style of the art
showcases one skill
and dwarfs the other.

Other times
the artists collide
like musicians in
an orchestra at the crescendo –
all their markings line up
they have the same tune
the same heart beat.

And it
falls to reason
that
an artists medium
(and it this case, everyone is an artist)
whether it be watercolors,
inks or chalks,
or crayons,
is his means of expressing himself.
The number of colors
in his box
represent exactly
the skills
of communication
he possesses.

That is to say
that crayons come in
different sizes.
The 64 size box
is wonderful.
There’s a crayon for listening,
and a color that means sensitivity,
one for
honesty,
and another for
tact,
one each of
hand gestures,
comforting,
encouragement,
empathy,
presence,
sharing,
perhaps there are several different shades of
teaching.
There’s a lot of different crayons
in that box.

I wish I had them all.
that would be great. Amazing even.

Perhaps
you could forgive me
when I confess
that
when I see other people
with more crayons than me
I get jealous.
It makes me kinda mad.

Life can be so unfair.

Sometimes I see people
who don’t abuse
other people.
And I think that’s wonderful.
The way it should be.
And I wonder
what color crayon
is the ‘not abuse’ crayon.
I want that one.
And I want to give it
to everyone around me.
But someone told me
that it’s
not one crayon.
It’s a combination
of like,
50
all on the page at once
to make this
beautiful art.

And there I go,
jealous again.
Of people with good boundaries
and who ask their children questions
People who say please may I
and people who can stand up for themselves.
Those relationships
make really good illustrations.
It just makes me smile
to see it.

One thing
that is important here
is knowing
that there is
always the potential
for a bigger rainbow.
Painters get to mix
their own colors.
Awesome right?
It is.
But sometimes I don’t.
Mostly it is
easier to use the colors I was given.
I mix one up
sometimes
one or two or three
and it’s good
to paint with those.

Sometimes it shocks
my fellow artists
when I have new colors.
They might even
take a little break
from our illustration
for a while.

Making new colors
is
different
than just adding
two parts kindness
and three parts listening.
It needs to be earned.
Somehow.
In some way.
New colors require work.

That’s the tough part.
working on new colors.

some people
have really crappy
colors to begin with.
Maybe four colors,
and that is all.
Only four!
One of them..
judgment,
and another,
teaching,
the last two could be
knowledge and being blunt.

Those would be some sad pictures.
All those relationship pictures would look
pretty similar
I bet.

Illustrations
of relationships
can be complex
or simple.
A common workplace illustration:
respect,
delegation,
humor.
a school illustration:
teaching,
learning,
questions,
mentoring.

My relationships
sometimes get in a rut
of using one color
way too much.
Other times I just sit
not knowing
which colors
would be right next.

And frequently
I pause
knowing
the color I need
is not yet
in my box.
Our illustrations
point out
that
I am missing some colors.
Is that what
is wrong with me?