Below is the poem entitled Still In Progress which was written by poet
C. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.
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How can I be selfless without being used?
How can I be demanding without being so rude?
How can I open up without closing back down?
How can I speak if you don't hear a sound?
How can I trust without being betrayed?
Yet how could I leave... even after you stayed?
But how can you love me when I won't let you in?
So many questions.... where do I begin?
Memories now blurred, flying through my mind……
Now, I’m trying to repress the days of being youthful and blind.
Every morning I pull on my armor, right from within,
Preparing for a war, that I intend, to win.
If my heart is my comrade and my mind is the enemy,
Then in the midst of this battlefield,
Life is the remedy…
Trying to stay sane, knowing that although this is temporary, nothing is vain…
Learning that there is always a purpose and people will try to corrupt us, and bring you great shame…
Being told that ‘Victory isn't given to he who starts the race the strongest, but he who endures until the end.’
Trying to suspend you from learning to depend... on yourself,
instead making you depend on the wealth,
Of someone who doesn't even know who he is,
while you’re grasping the stealth of your true identity, in your right hand, in your heart, the knowledge…
Never been withheld
Feeling the world come crashing down on you, compacting into a mist of air so cool,
The breeze passing right through, right into the depths of your pores, to ensue,
The burning and broken and fragile pieces of the inhabitants of the earth from your birth til' now..
Physically becoming everything that you breathe, touch, conceive, munch, perceive, every aroma...
And every great or insignificant trauma, reflecting off your skin oh so temporarily, the mark so paper thin…
Physically, THAT is what you are…
Because we only see the physical, right?
Yet, behind every movie is there not a director… a cast?
And behind every painting is there not an artist, combining colors and lines so vast?
And behind every child is there not a journey, a past?
That you did not walk, yet you know that it’s there, not by sight, scent, taste, touch, or hearing... But something inside you, that says it makes sense, KNOWS that all of that is there,