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.

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.