Holistic Medicine

How do we continue to endure this sad happiness?
We wake up physically free, mentally confined by what society deems as the norm.
We are dying to live.
The global warming caused by emissions from hate melts the souls of many- and the remnants trickle down the cracks in society
and collect
and collect
and collect
overflowing the clogged gutter-
until they form stagnant muddy puddles of man, that we trudge through and leave footprints that generations follow-
and they follow-
like blindfolded orphans lost in a modern jungle chasing and surviving on the molding bread crumbs that were left, because when you are starving for a purpose, consuming something is better than nothing.
Humanity is poisoned.
What is the cure?
A poet’s words.
We see the universe differently.
When a poet walks their feet never touch the ground.
We levitate on metaphors and we visualize the world in similes.
It is never just raining outside.
It’s heaven’s angels pouring out bucket after bucket of our tears and prayers that burdened the roof of God’s palace until it bore holes right through and started to flood.
It is not just a heat wave.
It’s the draft from the devil’s bedroom window that he left open as he sits- eavesdropping on our inner demons discussing whose soul is in jeopardy.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.
We are the vulnerable.
We are the brave.
Who else can stand on stage, undress and show each scar, each bruise, each blemish of our soul to strangers?
A poet.
Our imperfections are a superpower that grants us the gift of always finding the perfect words for imperfect situations.
A poets words are not shiny and new.
A poets words are like old clothing, the hand-me-downs, the washed and worn, tattered and torn, blood stained evidence of our imperfections that perfectly tell our story.
Imperfections that give our words purpose.
Imperfections that make us stand out from the masses.
The masses who choose to continue to stand in life’s assembly line trying to fit into a mold that is two sizes too small.
Conforming is not an option for us poets.
We are the last warriors left and our words repel labels.
Our words ignite flames.
Our words burn barriers.
Our words bash in the glass ceilings.
Collectively our words form a ladder so we can all ascend-
And we do it so respectfully, so eloquently and so unapologetically-
Like-
fuck you- society
Creative minds like ours should be feared.
We are the imperfect perfections that humanity needs.