patience is not my art,
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
and patience is not my art!, my dear!, patience
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,
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,
that will only make them know themselves less,
and when one knows less of herself she is less herself she is
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
and that is not truth.
that is patience,
that is science,
that is practice.
it is not truth.
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
for the patient,
for the wild.
patience is not my art.
see how far we've come