In this moment I feel fake. Like a fraud. Like I am trying so hard to write something or draw something or say something or feel something that sounds prophetic or cool or artistic. Are we all striving to be prophets? Before I lay me down to rest I am praying for openness. I strive to create without self judgement and the need for reward or approval or RECOGNITION. I want to write and draw and speak and feel in a way that is for the world, yet really, is simply proclaiming my light.
I will no longer be ashamed.
I have ghost eyes radiating a transparent spirit with a belly of fire and real wings upon my shoulders. Invisibility is my soul's couch, but I cannot hide indoors anymore.
Here is a portion of an incredible poem I heard today by Ken Arkind:
"You are louder than this.
A transmission,
sent straight through bullhorn of tongue,
by the soapbox that got lodged in your throat, on the day they told you to swallow your pride.
You are louder than this.
You are ruckus.
You are opus.
So shatter the silence and proclaim yourself,
turn up the melody so loudly that they never forget,
and hand the world your name,
like it was a gift."
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