Molting

I hold something profound

inside myself,

rooted deep, growing,

squatting in a false home.

Words, emotions, insight,

none of them giving it

ground to stand on.

Left stuck, unable to express

its vision,

its story.

What represses it?

What keeps it in hiding,

unwilling to spread its wings

and rise?

Is it damaging?

Hurtful?

Healing?

Perhaps too painful?

I know it’s there, just as I

know each breath and heartbeat

that keeps me alive.

It calls me.

It rises and retreats.

What is it running from,

or running to?

How do I follow it

through such lack of clarity,

such resistance,

or is it simply a desire,

a want

to have profound

information?

To crack a code

that leads somewhere that

doesn’t exist,

or holds a feeling I lost,

lack,

or crave.

Maybe that is life.

Ego.

Attachment.

Will.

I want to shed it,

like a molting,

overcome it,

so experiences are not stifled,

or questioned

at the hand of self.

A strong desire to accept

what the world produces —

that it all has a rhythm and

rhyme.

A reason.

A pace.

A piece, or place.

Maybe this is still about ego.

Privilege.

Not knowing real suffering.

Maybe the void isn’t

emptiness?

But selfishness.

The buried knowing…

the possibility that I am not

as empathetic,

as compassionate

as I believe, or wish myself

to be.

—FromTenderGround🧡