Voicemail
Hi, the caller you tried to call can’t get to you right now.
I wish you could brother, so your joyous welcome could fill in the paranoid groups my mind makes. A mere reflection of the lack of self-compassion that resides from old pangs of trauma.
The long-drives are self-therapy sessions where I convince my shadow not to burn the relationships I have formed. Pushing anger and hatred away from others — a reflection where I have poised that poison at myself.
For I’ve been drinking this deadly liquor for years and my drunk driving has veered me off the roads of contentment and straight down the highway to hell.
Letting go of dark beliefs has me detouring this streamlined asphalt of regret and onto brutal paths of self-discovery and truth. For lies I conjured became the trees that I navigate around. Some I repent and avoid and others I can’t leaving dents in my being. Crevices in a rocky terrain leave aches of the bumps endured by a growing mind.
And with dirt and no path in front of me clearly drawn, harrowing insecurity breaks the once arrogant self I was. Where I presumed so much when I knew nothing. What ignorance I have blatantly pushed on others as I chiseled away my own understanding.
The antidote is the characteristic I’ve turned away from. As compassion and love have inferiority sizing me down. Terrible thoughts I am hopelessly a victim too.
Why do I need God to remind me as I get older and wiser, that I’m still a child with so much to learn? To remember what equality I am to all of you and as I can love myself and give compassion, I can reciprocate the same gift to you all. Which we all deserve as wounded, pulchritudinous humans.