patience is not my
art,
words are.
sometimes I cry so
hard I open up a vessel
to up above,
and through it
blood flows
and though it
travels out, what lands
beneath
is words.
and patience is not
my art!, my dear!, patience
is my
cataracts,
it forces me into
the dark.
see, I need light
and clarity to speak, I need
veins that flow and
vessels that carry messages I don't even know
until they've
landed safely on the ground,
I need
truth that does not
think twice 'fore it troubles itself with words because
they are clear and
they are vibrant and they
need no
reconsidering.
they just flow,
they know their pattern, they know
the way to go,
patience, then, is
not one for me.
I do not toss and
turn them over for a clearer understanding,
no,
that will only make
them know themselves less,
and when one knows
less of herself she is less herself she is
lost
in darkness
from cataracts and
blindness she is
reconsidering,
twisting and turning, she is
double-thinking
what came before and what should come out next, she is
premeditating,
and that is not
truth.
that is patience,
that is science,
that is practice.
it is not truth.
truth flows.
truth is instinct,
it is not an equation for the problem-solving mind.
it is sharp pain,
it is extravagant
joy,
it is shock
in all its forms.
it is raw.
it is strong and
full of energy that you are unprepared for it is
here and now, not
previously-thought-about
nor planned-out-to-satisfy-most-if-not-all, it is
unsatisfying,
for the patient,
yet thirst-quenching
for the wild.
my darling,
patience is not my
art.
words are.
see how far we've
come
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