Old stuff coming up,
Violently, sometimes -
Repressed into fermented ick
Clogging sinuses
And thoughts.
Lean into the clearing,
Sometimes we have to -
Rough as it may feel
Surrendering to the process,
Allowing what needs to clear,
To clear.
Making room for
New different
Same remixed
Feelings brand new.
Repatterning.
Nourishment in abundant flow
Love right here,
Feeling yum bliss,
Once the ick clears,
Like a fever breaking
Wave upon wave,
Topsy turvy for a minute,
Sometimes,
Always, sometimes -
And, when it clears,
Like the clouds
After a storm,
Room there is for
Sunshine and fun -
And play and ease,
Harvesting that which grew
Whilst buried.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from @choosethesmiles and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Spider Over My Bed
Hanging down was the spider in a web. I screamed like a child; it was over my bed, hairy, black, and ready to pounce. I am sure it’s going to eat me, and every last ounce. So I grab my cricket bat. "Come, spider, bring it on." "Don’t do that," he said, "my dear, hold on." He then jumped down and sat by my side, terrified. I cried and cried, "Look, I am a nice spider. Please try to smile; I only wanted to sit with you for a short while." "No, go away," I said, "or I will use this bat." The spider ignored me and sat and sat. Then suddenly he turned for the hills, telling me to go buy a few happy pills. He vanished, and from that day to this, I asked the universe to grant this wish: please keep my bedroom and house spider-free. Please, universe, grant this one wish for me. It’s been a year; no sign of him. I actually think this battle I willed to win.
By Marie381Uk 4 days ago in Poets
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