Poems, Writing

On Edge

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The lure of comfort is like a string

Pulling me inside-out.

It exposes my insides,

Making me vulnerable 

And susceptible to the harsh winds

Of the outside world.

Every gust knocks me over

And each soft ripple 

Brushes against my heart,

Stirring it 

Until it dissolves.

I’ve built walls to protect 

My insides –

Those squishy, malleable 

Organs of life. 

They guard me from feeling too deeply –

Until the clever wind 

Creeps through the cracks,

And creates a wind tunnel.

Then it all bursts open 

And comes pouring out,

And I’m left with the shattered pieces

Of my safe house. 

I’m left to pick them up again,

Desperately trying to rebuild

What’s been lost.

 

But what if I lived

More on edge?

Not quick to anger,

But quick to action –

That same string pulling me forward,

Into life –

A visceral experience

That draws forth the

Guttural,

Wild,

Exuberant

Part of me.

What if my safe house didn’t need to exist,

Because I felt safe with myself?

What if I felt comfortable enough

In my own body,

That I didn’t need to seek

External sources of comfort?

The lure of comfort

Is what holds me back

From living life to its fullest,

From expressing my full potential.

Comfort tells me to stay complacent,

To deny the possibility

Of a more radiant,

Colorful,

And fantastical experience.

It could be dangerous,

But that rush of wind,

Standing at the edge of the cliff,

Would carry me up and out,

Into the world.

The longing wind inside

Threatens to destroy me,

To keep me wanting

With no real manifestation.

On the edge,

Something is bound to happen.

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