We are the hurt and wounded…
We carry our scars in our bellies and thighs,
And in those downcast eyes,
That hesitate to meet another’s.
We long for something.
We search and find comfort in many places,
All the wrong places,
Disguised like all the right places.
Filling our bellies with food,
Our credit card with debt,
Our homes full of stuff,
Until we have stuffed ourselves,
And there is no room to breathe.
Then we suffocate,
Under the messes we have made,
To cover the mass that we have accumulated,
From our parents, teachers, friends and perfect strangers.
We suffer because we don’t know how to let go,
We don’t even know the cargo we’re holding.
Can’t tell the difference,
What’s ours, what’s theirs,
What’s has to go,
What can stay…
Because this bible of beliefs,
We’ve been handed down,
Parts we have created,
Stitching together worn out, torn out pieces;
From other people’s universes,
Has now taken a life of its own.
It’s stretched its yarn in and out of every cell of our being,
And now we are lost in in the maze of the threads.
The only way out my friend,
To get un-lost, to be found, to be free,
Is the same way you came into this world,
Through this one precious body that is yours.
For some moments in time it will call to you,
It will whisper, sing out loud,
Hoping, praying, that you will hear him, hear her.
And when your ears are covered in wax,
Of your own wandering,
Away from the home that is this vessel,
And when you have done this enough, over and over,
Travelled for miles and miles, and lost your way home,
Back to this body,
It will then yell and shout and scream,
Throw a monumental tantrum,
For its the only way to get you to listen,
To get you to pay attention,
For it’s survival,
For your survival.
And illness my friends,
Is the loudest of wake up calls.
Its the call of your soul,
To come back home,
To your body.