It came unexpectedly,
when there was no danger in sight,
and shook every fiber of being
that long, frightful night.
No explanation, no comfort came
in the days and years ahead,
but you continued all the same,
plodding on when you could have fled.
Turning inward, you hoped to heal,
by protecting yourself from the world,
believing that with less to feel
you might turn whole—a body purled.
But retreating was defeating,
stealing from more than you alone,
an ungluing vortex, depleting
time you didn’t own.
“Be quiet,” they said. “Be calm.
Breathe. Meditate. Relax.”
But closed eyes and ohms
couldn’t move the needle past facts.
Then one day, waking in a rage,
pushing against what you conserved,
you started beating on the cage
with the anger you deserved.
Swing and hit. Swing and hit—
against the body and the mind.
It didn’t budge an inch,
but perhaps, a millimeter at a time.
And when the body tired, you slept.
And when you woke, you punched again,
past the nights you broke and wept,
until the cage began to bend.
Of all the advice and love I’ve received,
much of which may be true,
the one thing I know for sure is this:
the only way to is through.
— ❧ —
Poetry Block
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