Grand Rapids has my body;
the road has my heart.

Spread my wings just to see what becomes of me.
How is it that my hands can feel the clouds
When my feet still drag on the ground?
Kicking up soil of sweet nostalgia,
Reaching to my lips, a confectionery’s bitterness.
The truth is, I’m not sure how I’ve come to this.
When your head can feel the breeze that
The soles of your feet cannot,
The mid-space; the commonplace
Becomes shallow and vast. Too difficult to get past.
It’s where our bodies get stuck when our
Souls refuse to meet our hearts-
Or the other way around-
We cannot commit to the skies or
The sturdiness of solid ground.
So we float in this
Mid-space; commonplace.
For eternity, we may never leave
When our dreams are misplaced
in a world too colossal for our eyes to seek.

The truth is…
The truth is…

Some do exist who fly beyond this midway abyss.
And if you can catch them in flight
And pay attention to the astonishing sight,
You’ll see their struggle to lift above is not
Robust enough to crush their undying love for
The skies,
And their wings only pulse harder with
Fervent drive
In attempts to see their dreams materialize.

The truth is
(And I’ll whisper softly, this)
If you learn of these rarities,
You must latch tight and listen closely.
For these song birds sing to share melodies
Of hope and major chords so bright
To strengthen your own wings and
Prepare to lift you in your own flight.

Grand Rapids has my body;
The road has my heart.
Grand Rapids has my body;
The road has my heart.
The mid-space has my body;
The clouds have my heart.
Spread my wings and watch
As my world falls apart.

To Whom This May Concern:

Perhaps there is sound reason for our slow motion,
lost in translation in the curves of our rotation.
I missed the best part when I bowed over in frustration
and we lost ourselves in the colors of our infatuation.

Please push me a little further;
if you’re real God, I need you here.
Remind me that when we’ve reached the bottom,
it’s only fear that we should fear.

I suppose there is a plan to perpetuate
the innocence of our father’s faith.
Well, I’m begging and pleading for one unlikely sign
to prove the merit of waiting alone in this line.

Please grant me a little patience;
if you’re true, God, I need your hand
to help me build the courage to bridge my apprehension.

There is no mystery in my struggle to find
a definitive answer in the pages bound to your follower’s hands,
but the crisp autumn breeze and a canine’s pure loyalty
speak truth more coherently than any book can.
If it’s fact that there are more stars in the universe
than grains of sand on this earth,
it’s despairing that as small as our problem’s are,
we still manage to put ourselves first.
But our equations are consistently lacking one variable
that instinctively guides our feet away from catastrophe.
If your presence is intrinsic to this, God, please
level with me, and I’ll be honest when I say:
despite my tendency to question your possibility
I’ll keep my eyes open in probability.

Just please be fair with me, I need the atheist to rest in peace.

We’d learn how to say “no.”

We’d embrace our needs. Whether those were purely our own or the need to fulfill another’s.

We’d kiss more. Hold hands more.

What we wouldn’t do is run out to buy the next fucking iPhone. We wouldn’t care about shoes, video games and definitely not about student loans. We wouldn’t waste our money on television sets or SUVs. We’d give it away-simply hand out hundred dollar bills to anyone living on the street. We’d drink our favorite beer or wine, gather around our friends and sing “Don’t Stop Believin’” at the top of our lungs. Maybe we’d graffiti the city. Maybe we would fill an empty pool with tapioca balls and toss ourselves in. Perhaps we’d run naked, straight into the ocean, Lake Michigan or the creek in your neighbor’s back yard and make love in the filthy water.

Maybe we would live like we were nineteen again and know that the only guarantee of permanency is death.

Lately, I’ve been entranced with the reality. I’ve never been afraid of death, but instead found peace in the idea that when one door closes, another must open. However, this last year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrified of it. I would like to say that it’s just the thought of losing others that keeps me awake at night, but even the idea of my own death leaves me trembling.

All I keep asking myself is: if I were to die tomorrow, have I accomplished everything that I’ve dreamt up? Have I showed my friends and family how much I truly love them? Have I inspired anyone to reach beyond their fears and dive into a life that they’ve always desired? Have I spoken enough about the things that I love and stood strongly enough for the changes that I believe the world needs to see? Have I done anything for humanity or had all of my endeavors been in vain?

But mostly, was I happy or did I spend my life in misery, trying to please everyone else?

And then, if that weren’t enough to send my heart into shock, there is a haunting vision of losing anyone close to me. I can’t even put into words how deeply horrified I am of this. Because, the fact is, death follows and stalks our every move. Everything could change in an instant.

Everything could change in an instant and one day, it will.

Tonight, I’m going to make the best black bean soup I’ve eve made. I’m going to hug my dogs longer. I’ll sing sweeter and scream louder at band practice and prepare for what could be our last show ever. I’m going to unplug my husband’s computer afterwards so he cannot spend one more minute slaving away at work instead of locking lips with me.

Because death is throwing a party and you never know when you’ll receive your invitation.

Forget second nature, this pain is clearly first.
I could drag my pen to suffer for days
and still my heart has felt much worse.
They told me to be strong, find strength in some way,
“Don’t show them that you’re weak,” they say,
“be careful of your raw skin, protect it
so they cannot inflict more pain.”

So I tried that.

I grabbed every bandage I could find,
purchased every sewing needle I could buy,
tried to stitch up these open wounds,
attempt to suck the poison from my mind.
I swallowed each pill, numbed myself for a while,
suppressed my fears, tranquilized worry;
took a vacation from insanity.
“Go to him,” they said,
“find peace and a seat on a pew,
he’ll heal your wounds and show you love
like you never knew.”

So I did just that.

I carried my heavy heart and my bloodshot eyes to a church.
As I opened the doors to the building,
my attention shot to the sanctuary.
With each step I took to the front of the room,
my world slowed to a crawl and suddenly,
each head in the crowd turned to stare.
I kept my feet moving, avoiding the eyes of scrutiny,
trying to keep face in a room full of “faith”.

I didn’t reach peace in the house of the Lord,
because as soon as I took a seat,
I was cast out by God’s army.
They said that the cuts on my wrists were
the work of the devil and the scars on my legs were
unholy at best.
They threw stones at my head and chased
me out of their place of worship,
screamed that one day the devil would
have his way with me.

Well, maybe this is what they meant.
Because none of those remedies
resuscitated my heart and my head.
The bandages fell into the sewers,
the stitching unraveled and the pills
came right back up to burn
my throat and my tongue,
but I’m still numb.

I’m still numb.

It’s not quiet enough out here.
There is beauty in the trees but
I can’t seem to find peace
in my soul.

The music sings, but does she?

Everything breathes life around me:
a gentle breeze whispering serenity,
leaves dancing while birds chant their melodies
ever so softly.
Blades of grass trembling while
the sun speaks to a trickling creek, glistening.
If I sit still enough, for just a few moments as least,
through the wood of the park bench,
I can even feel a subtle throbbing of a heart beat.

The flow of electrons surrounding my body
should force me to feel instinctively alive;
but I’m stone inside.
Paralyzed by fear of losing everything.
Stiffened by self-doubt; silenced by worry.

It’s not that I feel I’ve worked so hard to get to
where I need to be; quite the contrary.
In fact, it’s the fear that I haven’t given everything in me
to make this work.
It’s being on the brink of something beautiful,
something achievable,
and losing the race of that swinging pendulum.

I’m terrified that I’ll let go.
That everything I’ve dreamt up
will sink and fade and bury my hope.

I love too strongly.
My infatuation: debilitating.
My passion is a weapon that will
ultimately end me.

But if I can’t make use of my time the way
I was designed to do so,
what’s the point in living?
what is my purpose for breathing?
I don’t want to feel emptiness.
I don’t want to yield resistance.
I can’t let the world kill me this way.

She’s afraid of public speaking.
He’s afraid of rejection.
She’s scared of insanity
and it’s not perfection he seeks,
but the chance of things never
getting better that he’s afraid to see.

So how do we improve things?
How do we think differently
to divert our minds from absurdity?
If we reject our fears and
take back the steering wheel,
will we be able to sing to our family
from the passenger seat?
will we be proud to speak our thoughts
and communicate effectively?

or will we break?
will we lose faith in everything
we were bound to create?

My worst fear is falling.
Falling from heights so high
that my heart collapses and I
lose sight of everything
I set myself up to be.
I’m petrified to the core-
freezing the marrow of my bones-
that I’ll always be just two
steps out of reach.
My dreams of flying are reoccurring
in my conscious and in my sleep.
I’m terrified to lose those wings.

But, I guess when you’ve reached the bottom
there is nowhere to go but up?
At least, that’s what they tell us.
But I was taught differently.
I was told to question everything.
But it seems that maybe my questioning
is becoming a mere disability,
because I have found no greater contradiction
than faithfulness and intimidation.

©Jennifer Bartlett 2011

…what is your worst fear?