You can touch it sometimes
It’s there. You can feel it.
Like a blank canvas with no inspiration, you can’t find the words to explain.
You look at others. Your like them. You want to be them. You need to be them.
Every thing in your body aches to be like that.
Everything in you life makes sense when you image your life as it.
But they tell you it’s impossible. Or only bad people do this. Or that your not really one of them. Or you can’t be like that.
Sometimes though it’s you. You hold yourself back. You can’t get yourself to be yourself.
Like a tadpole to scared to be a frog.
Like a flower to scared to be a seed.
Like a cloud to scared to be rain.
You exist. You love. You feel. You even try.
People want this person. The one you create. To be the real you. And you try. You try so hard.
Like a green light trying to be red.
Like a camera trying to be a photograph.
Like a letter trying not to be read.
But it’s their. Like the rain falling. The light switches on. The camera takes a photograph.
You can feel this. Here. In your heart. Down in your soul. Telling you. Wishers from a moon. First far away but slowly. Surely. It. Is. Deafening.
And you try to hide it maybe. You try to makes it a secret.
So worth. Your being. Your seeing. Life as you can only continue in a conundrum of being not the you that people think is you.
That little seed. You keep hidden.
It begins to bloom. A radiance that slowly shows.
Then one day.
Your the real you.
And you think. Why did you ever?
And you remember how impossible it had seemed.
And you remember you have so far to go.
But your fuvally stepping.
Like the path that speaks your truths.