Beautiful Flowers
Beautiful flowers are not for the faint of heart nor are they for the madman who lives his life apart. Constant worry is the norm of our days Endlessly burning our spirits away. How can we enjoy the beautiful flowers if we leave no space for joy? How can we drink of the great mother's milk when our own cup is full full to the brim of sludge, murky and dark? Better to empty our cups, and so have it full. Better yet to throw it away and through our roots draw up the sweet sap that nourishes our soul. Descend the perilous stairs, one by one and find at the end that the only true peril was not to step through the entrance at all. For only from pain can true growth come so take your fuel and let it propel you forwards towards wonders untold.
I like writing poetry, or at least in a poetical way. There's something really satisfying and freeing about the medium and the few constraints it imposes. I worry that what I write is not proper poetry, but at the same time I really don't care. More and more I'm learning to appreciate that what I do is perfect for what it is. I'm not trying to be someone else or get acceptance into someone else's "club." Or at least that's what I know I should aim for. For that way, aligning myself with external metrics, lies the way of danger; that way is past the cave's entrance.
You can't save up on happiness; you either use it now or you lose it.