Work in Progress

Alive I am in this body in this life

and although I see through story and strife

I illuminate my shadows and forge my way

through tangles of uncertain days

And in ways I think why

have I not just arrived

at the place I expected to be

With the land and the dough

and the titles to show

with a homestead that's perfectly run?

Why is it that still I'm just simple and real

with a list that's only half done

So where is the feeling

of arriving at being

of presenting the world with ME

Is she hiding? Or waiting? Or side stepping, skating?

Pretending to need to know more?

Is she scared of the walls and the

candy striped halls

of society now in it's pretentious malls?

Where is the ME, where is the YOU

that's says who the fuck cares

if I've done algebra two

What about the ME in the middle

of working on little

things that make hearts go aglow

and seeds that are planted

and small wishes granted

and words that help others grow

what about days where the magic

is normalcy,

stories of self are a fog

where the dishes go dirty

and laundry's a heap

where's the beauty in you on the days

you feel cheap

Where's the beauty in us if we don't grant

success until debts are maxed out and our

credit is fat, when our school's made out

rich

yet our jobs are a bitch

and we're still not connecting to Earth.

What's success in my skin

if I'm expecting to win

something that was never a race.

What's glory in the eyes

if I'm living disguised

and not willing

to be in this place.

Every moment a muscle

worked stronger by reaching

and weaving together in grace

and in grieving

reclaiming the normal unglamorous me

as daily life sculpts what we

are supposed to be

WE already are works

in exquisite progress,

a malleable, unfinished success.

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