THERE IS ROOM

I used to lock myself inside a mental loft,
to run away from all my imperfect scars,
bargaining with my life, counting up the cost,
as if I had no place beneath the stars.

I couldn't bear to hold my own imperfect being,
I raised others' criticism to the gods themselves,
the only rescue left to me was fleeing
from ever finding how to face myself.

And down the narrow stair of old forgetting
I slipped in silence — offering no fight.
And suddenly, in my basement of reflection,
I woke up,
in the shadow of my objections,
and coming out of that sleep —
I realized something that touched me deep.

I'm simply allowed to be imperfect,
the feelings in my body more to trust,
to write my poems on a whim, unchecked,
and step into the world, with no need to adjust.

I am a living being, neither robot nor a doll,
I have my share of hang-ups, that's just how it goes,
and there's an existential art in this —
to let them have their place, wherever life flows.

Hunched over the paper, I am writing this,
with unwashed hair, in the hush of dawn,
in sleepy handwriting, free of artifice,
on a blank page — no expectations drawn.