Inspiration is a Breath of Fresh Air

Every night.
There is a stillness to these
It's cloudy to be thinking so clearly.
This way. or that.
About my id, ego, and super something.

This world seems knew to me.
I'm using my voice for the very first time.
And words, how they fall on the tip of my tongue.
I want to usher them,
To compose them.

It's not that I wasted the last years,
Because I'm still doubtful they existed.
It's impossible to think I had abandoned myself.
And for so long.

You wouldn't call this rediscovery.
It's not about new beginnings,
It's just about breathing.

Every night.
It's unclear.
How it works.
I can draw outside the lines again.
I can get lost again.
I've never made so much progress going backwards.

I think about the meaning of inspiration.
A breath of air.
Stimulation of the mind or emotions.
It's beautiful,
How I can coexist as both of those things.

Somewhere along the way,
I encountered myself.
My fingers grasp as if they've never touched.
I speak as if I've never been heard.
My green irises find the blues and browns of others
Blinking back through me.
As my self.

Poetry by Shawn Monahan
Read 1001 times
Written on 2008-08-28 at 06:37

Tags Self  Love  Soul 

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