Authenticity does not do the dance
Of “look how real I am”
It shows up quietly in the background
In each moment.
Or loudly shouting… when my authentic reaction is
Fuck you for objectifying my tenderness.
And assuming it was only of value,
When it looked like you needed it to.
Real? I am real in my inability
To have compassion in this moment.
For the person who encouraged my real creative heart
But immediately discarded my light as invaluable
When it wasn’t created for his purposes.
I’ll feel loving later.
Human. I’m doing human.
Would you like an authentic reaction?
Here it is…
Thank you for objectifying me
In the most elusive way
So I can reaffirm
That I will not be a puppet
Of what a spiritual being,
Should look like
You can silently speak
That my art ‘should’ look differently
How my heart should behave.
But I am not a performer.
I am a goddamn human being.
The intersection of sacred and profane.
Poems half full of love, and half full of
Ugly, dripping, salty swear words,
Anger mixing with appreciation.
Thank you for reminding me
That I am no leader,
And neither are you.
We are all just humans.
Following each other in circles.
If I am the chosen one,
So is everyone else.
I do not write or speak,
To be judged by anyone
Your praise, your criticism
Are of equal value- none.
Sometimes my authentic being is love,
And sometimes she is a shouting, crying, bitching,
Moaning, yelling, fearful,
I’m okay with it.
She accepts herself even when she’s ugly?!
Like this moment…
When I don’t even feel loving.
What am I?
Who am I?
I am this.
This is real.