Writing is (usually) a dope experience for me, mainly because my poetry varies from traditional, eloquent-sounding literature, to rhythmic spoken-word, to journal-like prose. So every time I write, it's a bit of a mystery what'll come out. But what has never changed is why I write: to heal, to process, to overcome. So sometimes my poems have come out sounding rather bloggish--like a blog post or letter of advice, but with poetic style and rhythm (see How To Have An Awkward Conversation). I'd say this week's top pick from my daily challenge fits that description. 

But to quickly provide some context, I write a poem every weekday (i.e., 5 poems a week) as a part of a #PoemADayChallenge I've given myself for the rest of year, and I post my favorite piece of the week on this site, usually in the Poetry section (but you're about to find out why it's here instead, in the blog). You can read last week's winner here, and the week before that, here. I also post excerpts of every single poem I write for my #PoemADayChallenge on a Medium series I update daily here. 

So here's "Wallow", a poem I wrote to push back the pity-party in my own head. My hope is that, for those of us who question ourselves and even give in to our inner gremlins, we remember that, in the end, life isn't about how impressive we are. Rather, what matters is how genuinely we express the irreplicable, personal, creative existence we’ve each been given. 

Hope you enjoy aaaaand if you like it (or don’t), drop a comment. Let me know what you think.

~B
 

ask me how to run God's gifts into the ground on the wrong day
and I'll proudly tell you:
just complain.

keep going,
don't stop till the irritant that is your own voice
brings your feet to the nearest cliff,
but don't jump.
just wallow,

let your tears build till cliffs turn to waterfalls,
then go for a swim,
then drift,
till you forget why it is you still live,
what it is you have to give,

my nig,
wallow,
every time the folk you thought were bros
show you your absence ain't all that felt,
every time those you called friends
seem to only text every now and then, 
because they "suck at communicating", 
even though it's 2018, and you know that's bull-feces, 
and we make time for the ones who give our time on this planet worth.

every time those voices in your head
with those toxic words
encase your bursts of vision like a self-made coffin in a cheap hurse,
every time a fork in the road tries to tell you what you can and cannot do,
when instagram shows you everyone else's highlights
and you compare the fertilized grass on the other side to the humble minutiae of your daily life,
when you realize that the millennial mind was supersized with ambition for ambition's sake
and drugged on honestly spoken lies,
when all this shit pimps, kicks, and drags you deeper into self-absorption, 
woe-is-me party hosting,
just wallow.

Wallow till you stare
at a blank wall
like an anxious, individualistic teen in the West
and ask yourself
what does it even matter?
even if I get back up, 
what next?
what's the point, 
why am I even alive?

don't answer.

stay silent awhile.
consider what it means
to die.
consider that it might happen
soon. 
to you.
and that your only job
is to fill up the time between now and soon
with the best expression of you.

but that was all tangential.

wallow.
'cause that's how you run God's gift--you--
into the ground.

into soon.

Photo by whereslugo on Unsplash