Mad Dance

They who dance are thought mad by those who hear not the music. – 1927

The struggle to understand, to be understood.
Comes down to such strange things.
Brain wires, glasses of perception, experiences lived
Culture and education, acceptance of what you can’t
understand but can sense a connection to.

Arguing about the shades of a blue pen
Seems mad, almost without purpose
But when blue is your world the shades matter
When blue is the color you see
understanding blues is a big deal.

Struggling to put complex feelings into words
A poetic crisis of faith, a true crisis of life
When those feelings demand their words
be spoken, be understood the world can crash
down and become chaos in the places misunderstood.

Knowing what you know, without words to say
Feeling the feelings large and ravenous
Speaking them to be hushed, quieted by
Those who can’t hear the music you
are compelled to dance to

Fighting so hard for the words to be not heard
but understood, accepted, with their feelings
fraught with emotion, tension, hurt and love
To see them swatted away with platitudes
and shrugs because you are being TOO MUCH

If you hear the music – DANCE!
If you feel the words – speak Poet, SPEAK!
If your heart hurts let the tears FALL.
If they don’t want to understand
Say a prayer and walk away.

It’s no fault of yours that your brain
Was wired different from the start
Neither is it theirs that they don’t see
the world as you hear it, sense it.
The pen is still blue – start there.

Unbroken

Pardon the mess.
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to heal from
being broken by
you trying to fix
what wasn’t broken
but was different.
It didn’t’ fit so push
pry, chop, mash
squeeze and tape.

Pardon the messy
and I mean me.
I am busy learning
how to love who I am.
Not who I was supposed
to be, or how I was
supposed to be.

Pardon the tears.
I am using salt and water
to cleanse wounds
and old scars.

Pardon the burnt timbers.
some bridges just are
made to be burnt.
I will draw new dreams
in ashes and tears
across my arms and chest.

Pardon the frustration.
would it be easier if I was
quieter, or maybe angry?
Quiet you can ignore.
Anger you can get mad about.
I am just figuring out
a lifetime of crossed wires
and mixed signals.
Coded messages I couldn’t
crack because they were
a language, not a code.

Pardon the rambling.
Some things are not
made to be put away
neat and tidy in a box.
I know you are uncomfortable.
I won’t stop healing
but you can have a nap.
The easy things you’ll see
the hard work – no.

Pardon the acceptance.
I won’t be less for you
to feel like you are more.
I won’t hide the scars.
They prove I made it out.
I honour them now.

Pardon the mess.
I am busy trying to
heal what was broken
while you were trying to
fix what wasn’t broken
in the first place.

Doing deep work in therapy. Finding my way. It is helping. And it is exhausting.