Too Much, Too Raw, Too Real, Too Quick

Too much,
too raw,
too real,
too quick,

Life bursts
wide open,
like a wound festering,
gaping, infected.

Life is like birthing babies,
again and again,
within seconds,
never having time
to recover,
once.

Life is a bullet
breaking skin,
hitting the heart
deep within chambers
of orchestras playing,
sustaining lungs.

Life is time, clicking
the clock goes

*tick tock*

in the deepest, darkest parts of my soul
the bleeding is endless,
like the ever-changing faces
of Mother Nature.

Time is short and long,
simultaneous,
when attempting to maintain
some semblance of sanity,
in a world gone
quite insane.

And the soul takes flight
every single moment of breath,
like that of the eagle,
yet grounded,
on Earth.

This mundane society is killing me,
softly.

The constant incessant chattering of tongues
that do not recognize my speech
stare at me,
wild-eyed in wonder,
like that painting, The Scream.

I stand, horrified and shocked,
turning my back
on millions of children
screaming—
millions of people
hurting—
billions of souls
crying out,

love,
love,
please
show
me
love.

Oh, but the birds, wildlife
even the trees,
the sky knows my name
and calls to me at dusk,
to show me its bright eyes
and diamonds dancing
in the endless abyss of the universe.

The mighty hand of wind
changes direction,
in milliseconds
causing my neck
to crack,
spine misaligned,
a constant whiplash
of my senses,
reeling into dimensions,
I have not yet traveled
and have no choice
but to stand and face
myself.

For I am woman, strong,
born of the cracked and wounded hands
of immigrants,
who built this land
we now reside on,
stolen from others
now sacrificed in vain.

I am not the woman I was
five minutes ago.

Dear Great Creator,
crown my head
with great golden angels,
and send me into places of peace,
to meadows and sunshine,
to deep waters of dolphins diving,
and the vast free wilderness
of Africa.

For my body is tired,
yet my soul is exploding
supernovas of senses
tethered in this human shell,
my head feels
like it is about to crack
wide open,
and all the secrets of this place we stand upon
are to be known,
yet my feeble human mouth
is not enough
to report my discoveries.

I need ammunition.

Please send recon,
a backup,
something to tell me
that I am not alone,
to tell me
that my blood is not spilled in vain,
to let me know that all of my breaths
have not been wasted for nothing.

I need a sign,
Morse code,
a telegraph,
take me back to the days of trade,
cover my body in pelts of wildebeests,
and sit me down by the fireside.

Explain to me
why I have chosen
this path for myself.

My dear Lord,
I understand
far too much,
too raw,
too real,
too quick.

Life
is like birthing
babies,
again and again,
within seconds,
never having time
to recover,
once.

You can find the spoken word version of this poem, which accompanies the reading experience, here.