sometimes I regret not having been born simple.

to have begun as a seed, planted in the rich folds of the earth,

and to have eventually grown into a shoot, tender and promising.

there in the ground, my roots



would follow the hoots of the worms down, down

into dark lands where they could broaden and toughen under the watchful eye of nobody.

I would not have the burden of a brain or eyes,

would not have to fight to accept things,

would not have to grasp onto tiresome ideas,

would not have questions.

I would not have a heart and so could never be disappointed in any living thing.



and mute, I could only thoughtlessly pursue the things I needed,

no matter if that meant taking more than my fair share

or stifling the flimsy sprouts that got in my way.

obtain, obtain, obtain!

and I would worship God simply by existing.

it would take no effort from my part;

my existence would glorify,

and He would smile down on me,

and it would be enough.

but I have a need,

as I have a need for water and for sleep,

to create.

I have a need to capture the terribly beautiful and the terribly ugly and make it my own.

it’s my identity.

without this throbbing passion, I do not recognize myself,

am not myself.

and so, I struggle onward,

I continue loving people and hurting them too,

I make promises I don’t intend to keep,

I pray.

because this is the life I was given,

and it’s beautiful.

I know that.

but sometimes it takes a poem to remember.