…THIS is real.

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,

Petty asshole.

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.



3 thoughts on “…THIS is real.

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