No.112: They Tell Me to Listen to the Spirit.

8-Word Challenge (the 8 words I had to use in this poem): 

Secret
Faucet
Wine
Attic
Hill
Rocket
Umbrella
Quiz

The Poem:

I’ve been wondering how I ought to choose
when every move I make
seems justifiable.
They tell me to listen to the Spirit.
The Spirit tells me to get over my feelings.
I tell Him, you ain't make me
to waste away in cubicles.
The Spirit says to me, I'm teaching you.
I tell Him, your teaching skills are misery,
cause I'm miserable, 
and the only thing I've learned is how unprepared I am for this earth. 
If this has all been a quiz, now would be a good time for a curve.
They didn't prepare me for this on the Hill,
& there ain't a faucet of wine strong enough for this hurt.

The Spirit offers to tell me the Secret.
I asked Him what the catch is.
He said I need to actually listen,
keep the smart-aleck in his box, 
and throw the box in the attic,
and build an ark for the storm,
and prepare my ego for damage
'cause the Spirit don’t sugar-coat.
He’s a soft-spoken savage.

I rolled my eyes.
Alright, here's an umbrella, I told Him. Let's have it.
He said, rudely,

it ain't rocket science kid.
Stop being so scared.

'Scuse me?

Afraid. Fearful. Self-doubting. The thing you feel before you begin your daily complaining. Panicky. Frozen. Petrified. Terrified ‘cause you ain’t verified. Stressed. Impatient. Tense. Drenched. In anxiety. S-c-a-r-e-d. Scaaaaared.

I know how to spell the word.

But do you know my word?
Is your faith just a pretty noun in your About page, 
or will it ever become a verb?

You won't stay put
‘cause you're too scared to leave your battles at my feet.
You won't leave
‘cause you're too scared to trust me with the aftermath of breaking free.

The Secret is: I gave you my instincts when I gave you my Spirit. 
I molded you with my wisdom.
You already have everything you need to make a decision.

The Secret is the breath in your lungs,
the time you misplace.
You are a constellation of atoms that will only ever happen once.
Don’t let you go to waste.

The Secret
is to dig up the lot I’ve planted in you and enjoy it,
trust me, unless you remember the last time I made a mistake,
doubt your doubts,
resign from fear,
choose to not be afraid.
Remember who’s temple you are,
remember the size of my grace.

The Secret is simple.
It’s for you
if it builds your faith.
It's not for you
if it's done without my name.

That was poetic--really. 
But I’m not really sure that helps me. 
Like at all. Do I leave, or do I stay? Do I fight or do I wait?
If it’s what you say, then the Secret is basically everything.
Life. Free will. God.

Precisely.

(sigh)

This
is why I don’t talk to myself. 

Cover Photo by Afonso Coutinho on Unsplash