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THE NEW ME POEM
I am perfect in my imperfection.
The eyes, the lips, hands and thighs.
The nightmares, the medication.
PTSD, Bipolar Disorder.
It’s a diagnosis, not a death sentence.
I am beautiful.
My smile shows the look of my Cherokee ancestors.
Cloaked in old wisdom, medicine.
Words I’ve avoided for thirty plus years.
Healer, shaman, native drummer.
I am one of many women who sit around the drum.
Spirit at times feeling like a floundering fish.
My eyes blink at what others see as nothing.
One of the only things that keep me going is the gift of words.
I no longer take the “tough love” of others.
I follow my inner voice that shows me love.
The part of me that says remote voyeur. Creator does not leave you unaware.
The blessing and curse of being a person who travels between the worlds.
My passion. My calling. My life.
Released from my prison of sorrow and pain.
Trying to find my place in this world.
Looking for my true soul mate.
Knowing what it is like to have loved and lost.
No one to blame.
Life is life.
