untitled

i always wanted to be a writer

a musician

a artist

someone who loves the skin that hugs their bones so comfortably

someone who just plain and simple loved their self

but when i tried to make myself into the things that i was not

tidy

on-time

emotionally detached and unable to feel hurt

i became something i was not

pretending to be tidy made my mind a mess

trying to be fifteen minutes early everywhere made me stay home

and denying myself the ability to process made me

n u m b. 

in this search of myself

what should be a pursuit of joy

i had merely just organized chaos and shoved it in my heart

and boy does it hurt when it explodes...

but

when i let go of myself

when i bury the control that i want to keep

i became free to write a poem about the sky

sing a silly song about the trees

and smell the paint stained on my old t-shirt

and suddenly it's not about what i can do

but it becomes about how beautiful it is that there are things i cannot do

because after all this time,

i am not defined by what i have the ability to do or become

i am defined by love that is so graciously given to me

that my friends

is what it means to be f ree

-jr