by Jane Tawel
I Don’t Know Who I Could Be
By Jane Tawel
April 19, 2021
I don’t know who I’d be, if I stopped unforgiving.
I don’t know who I’d be, if I spent less time worrying.
And who would I be if I didn’t care to keep up my grades,
but instead, judged not, either self or you?
If winning was an illusion I left behind like a broken toy,
might I know the terrible, fearsome freedom of joy?
I rarely know who I am, except as a passing glance,
a whirl of motion, unsteadied by a center aflame.
And I have always hated my name.
Longing for meaning in the temporal labeling
of a self-made shelter from identity thieves
I become “that person”, not myself.
My pronouns are “it” and “that”.
I hold myself at arm’s length,
and keep my arms too full;
so, by thinking I carry the weight of the world,
I carry a chimera, not a Hope.
Too afraid to empty my hands of grasping-ness,
too impatient or easily irritated to extend out,
either to help or hug.
I corner my soul like a trapped animal.
I don’t know who I could be,
so rather than running towards,
I take a step backwards.
Never throwing caution to the wind,
I am winded by a stagnancy of fearful insecurities,
an anger of ant-sized proportions.
My senseless, defenseless fists,
of my deformed ego, beat against
the beating of my expensive, essence-ed heart.
I sell my soul for the fast-food of believing that I was right.
I hide true treasure where I won’t find it.
Not knowing who I was once,
I still sense who I could become.
There is a self a-waiting just ahead,
No not a head, — a heart and will and
sensuality of Spirit-world.
The senses know
what the soul can only dream of.
My soul whispers,
soft as an Infant’s caressing forefinger,
strong as a memory of another World:
“You can become. You are becoming.
Let yourself meet yourself,
and be Created.