Work in progress

Shame

Sometimes
I feel like glass.
Anyone can see
the cracks.

I shove my heart
like a cotton ball
into a bottle
full of aspirin,
to cover them up.

Patches

I am a canvas
begun out of
borrowed patches.

An unfinished blanket
ever growing with
new patterns.

Work in progress

I am not a dot,
I am a line, swinging
up and down every day.

I'm shaped by detours
my life takes
between the milestones.

I am never complete,
never just a goal
in a plan.

Not enough

I called my body fat,
feeding it years
of daily fears
and unrest.

I called my body weak,
rushing through
rough roads
and higher dreams.

I called my body not enough
just for being
one perfect piece
of an imperfect me.

Whole

If I could just
swiftly iron wrinkles
like creases on a shirt

And tighten skin
with a pair of scissors
like trimming baggy jeans

Or at least oil
creaking shoulders
like hinges on my front door...

But would I still be me
without my scars,
my pains,
my sagging skin
and all my wrinkles?

Destination

I am 40 and
I have so much yet to learn,
So much to understand,
So much to achieve.

But I am 40
And I still love to explore,
Love to question,
Love to live.

I might as well enjoy
The journey as it is
And forget all about
The need to arrive.

Last line

Stop treating old age
like one more problem
you need to solve,
one more virus
you need to avoid.

Life is incurable.
So is love.
So is curiosity.
Be sure you
catch them, too,
along the way.

Wrinkles are just
an aftermath of
every joy and every ache.
Love too much, laugh too much
till the very last line.

Being old
is having lived.