My day ends at five in the afternoon. Somedays it feels like the world will skid off its axis or the horizon will melt like goo off a popsicle stick. But it never does. Maybe I end at five o'clock but the world just keeps turning, the light fades to darkness, but without the sun to vanquish my shadows they just overtake me. So after five, I have this overwhelming urge to shut myself up in a dark room and shut out the world. I pretend it stopped with me. But the next morning the sun rises and I regret all that I’ve done. Now I’m more behind than before and I wish I headed my mother’s shouts, or shrugged off the overwhelming sorrow. But the dark I once found horrifying has become a welcome cover, this blanket of night keeps me from seeing the mistakes, from acknowledging how much everything matters. In here, in my pitch black cocoon I can pretend to be a blooming butterfly, though we all know I'm a rock .
In every creative work, in any meaningful work there’s always a point of vulnerability, When the narrative retracts from the speaker and acknowledges the author When the protagonist reflects on their wrongdoings When the actor is telling their story onstage, or When my poets flip the mirror back from the world and unto themselves. And then I am vulnerable I’m exposed for the nasty wad of human flesh I am I’m no more precious than the dirt beneath our feet No wiser than an infant, and far more foolish than any creature that roams the ear th. Oh, how open am I How free am I? The world has shifted the wind is cold, harsh, it devours my skin But I’m more alive than I was swaddled in that jacket! The wind has meaning now that it can touch me My voice has meaning, as I must speak truthfully— Be vulnerable, and don’t mock! Being honest is being you