And still I’m blocked…

inktuition and still I'm blocked

 

All the work I’ve done on myself:

the therapy, the healing,

the certificates I’ve gained,

the triumph of Masters degrees.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the promises I’ve made,

to stay true to my talent,

seem to land on fertile turf,

yet remain fallow, dry, non-manifest.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the years I’ve passed,

with fresh intentions each Jan

that fade to grey, nudging into Feb.

In March it’s as if they never began.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the distractions I excitedly seek.

New garden: tick. Weekly weeding: tock.

Jobs to take my mind off the task,

decade after decade. That’s the shock.

And still I’m blocked.

 

All the futures I’ll never achieve:

what will be my hand-me-down glory?

A creative life chronically unlived?

Or trusting what’s for me won’t go past me?

 

Knowing all of this… and more.

And still I’m blocked.

 

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/KROMKRATHOG)

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trapped in non-life

head in noose

wishing someone could tighten the knot

melting my feet from beneath

 

alone in dilemma

an over-thinking hell

i seek solace under random lorry wheels

 

caught in a block

seeking release from within

i instead feel lost and without

 

age has caught up

i have the tears of a frown

etched on my disappointed face

 

no eyes turn my way

avoiding glance, discovery:

i’m just a forgotten yesterday

my emptying out

inktuition emptying out

 

no more clinging on to the person I was –

in a clothed, hidden, impersonal place,

out of step and out of touch,

yet blessed within ignorant bliss –

I’ve shed the very skin I was in.

becoming conscious is a contract

you sign with your knowing side,

but if you knew what lay in advance,

you’d rip it up, run away and hide.

having pledged my soul this journey

to become more present, more true

I know there’s no return to shore

just the endless ocean to endure.

how I’d love to bring back my false self,

let her dance and laugh with such ease

to shine against the surface of life

and see reflected the mask she believed.

hollow it was, but what’s left in its place

is a sense of being completely alone,

robbed of charm, of all defence,

my ragged heart is, reluctantly, free to roam.

my life raft that no longer floats

inktuition life raft

 

I looked to without, instead of within,

the buoyancy aid that no longer swims

 

an external holding that was

just an illusion

a made-up craft, a

fake sense of inclusion.

 

So why hold on so long to an aid

that clearly no longer served me?

 

Was fear of drowning

the option that made

me feel I should adapt

and, probably, pervert

my core value?

 

Or was it the fear of feeling adrift

in a dark ocean of lonely:

that swaying sense of sad, of swirl,

afraid to let what is, unfurl.

 

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/fantasista)

the garden of self-doubt

Shade

The only metaphor that works, right now,

is a plant in a corner of the garden

that’s always known its inner-most colour,

kept secret, to adapt and fit in.

 

This plant isn’t stretching to reach the sun.

It’s been content with its lot on the lawn,

accepting that others will burst and bloom

while it keeps to itself, forlorn.

 

Imagine this plant could transplant its space

to a patch that was easily lit,

giving a chance to grow like the rest.

But it flinches, retreats as though hit.

 

Why would a plant not take a chance to grow?

‘Cos it’s forgotten it really can?

Or has its true nature been buried beneath

those decades of soul-sucking soil?

 

Sun

What if the gardener was calling time

on the plants that had real worthwhile?

What if there was a ruthless deadline,

on the blooms with a chance of life?

 

What would our shady plant have to say

about the finite ­– the limit of time?

Would it continue to rot in the safety of shade,

or risk the scrutiny of sun?

 

Given a push, it will feel the sense

to die, to shift, or move out.

What’s no longer left is the chance to risk

the outcome of years of self-doubt.

 

So, time to make a shift towards

a sun that could no longer steal.

Trust the gardener of this gorgeous space

where the thorns could ultimately heal?