Soul searching

 

Soul searching through every staggered line.

If I was to travel back in time,

would the person I saw back then

recognise the me that looks back at him?

 

Would he see the growth?

From every time I planted seeds,

to grow over time, so that I could

see my potential as a tree,

newborn branches reaching out.

Fruit growing bountiful and free for

me to taste the growth

that can normally only be felt internally.

 

Would he take an apple from that tree,

And discard it because

it doesn’t come packaged

in plastic wrapped futility?

 

Soul searching across every verse

I put my words to the test every time

I let them scratch into my barked throat.

 

Do they hurt or bring joy, do they connect,

do they make some sense of some abstract

fragment of my past, or of this world

and its vast set of stories and lives?

 

I've scratched at moments

and looked deeply

at why they made me feel.

Why I reacted, why I was who I was.

Would the me from yesterday,

see the growth, or just a weed

that needed to be plucked

from existence?

 

Soul searching through the deepest parts.

I dig into my soil, spade in blistered hands

I dig into me, all of my deserted wastelands,

I blast songs through my heart to invite

fire to spark, a blaze. To give me a moment

to wonder as I gaze at all the good and the bad.

And it can take its toll. It can sometimes

feel like digging a hole into the heart of sadness

that forms this universe, to swallow you whole.

But I know that from that hole

I’ll always climb, renewed and with

a more open, thoughtful mind.

 

Soul searching inside.

Would the old me see the love,

or would he be hit between the eyes

by the way the pain

can feel too real?

Would he sigh, saying that its worthless?

Just words on paper, spoken word vapour.

Words scattered into the leaves.

 

Well, I’d tell him loudly.

I’d say, proudly, are you happy?

Because even on my sad days

I smile more than I cry,

I look to the world in delight, and even

though the dirt and the hate

sometimes gets into my eyes,

even if cosmic emptiness

collects under my fingernails

from time to time,

from picking up pieces

that have been worn down.

I’d still say that I’m happier now.

And more often I find stardust

when I explore the essence of life.