What lives in my imagination is always more than what survives the translation, and the distance between them sits in me with a quiet and unyielding ache that refuses to be reasoned with no matter how many times I try,
What lives in my imagination is always more than what survives the translation, denying it only deepens the quiet wound festering beneath the surface of my forced little successes,
What resides in my imagination is always more than what survives the translation, am I strong enough to endure this divide when every part of me urges me to escape this unknown tension,
What lives in my imagination is always more than what survives the translation, the effort invested in this endeavor is met with waves of fresh despair that crash over me long after before the work is complete…
Clear eyes arrive after the making and find the exact place where certainty used to reside, there’s no going back to the comforting blindness of the making, but only the decision of what to do with what I can now clearly see,
Clear eyes arrive after the making, finding the exact place where certainty used to reside, and the work feels like a decision I made in another season by a version of myself I can see clearly but can no longer fully reach,
Clear eyes arrive after the making and find the exact place where the certainty used to live, why does clarity hurt more than the blind rush that at least makes me believe in my own inner magic,
Clear eyes arrive after the making and find the exact place where certainty used to reside, when the lights go out, the hours of rest are interrupted by the persistent unfinished work that knows precisely when I am most vulnerable to its questions…
What once soared freely in thought through endless nights of inspiration, the betrayal bites as promise turns to dust scattering across the floor of my disappointed heart,
What once soared freely in my mind through endless nights of inspiration, imperfect and real and bearing the fingerprints of every decision I made under pressure, but honest is always worth more than perfect,
What once soared freely in thought through endless nights of inspiration, does this fracture reveal the path to something genuine, or merely the familiar path of repeated falling,
What once soared freely in thought through endless nights of inspiration, now heavy with the weight of what falls short, carrying the grief of potential forever lost…
Now, the quiet critic whispers through every pause between breaths, unraveling the joy with a deliberate doubt that slices cleaner than any external judgment could,
Now, the quiet critic whispers through every pause between breaths, resisting its voice but feeling the truth sink deep into my bones I thought were already unbreakable,
Now, the quiet critic whispers through every pause between breaths, how do I turn this shadow into my teacher when all it brings is the burn my own fresh awareness,
Now, the quiet critic whispers through every pause between breaths, and I’ve finally stopped trying to silence it because seeing too clearly isn’t the enemy of the work; it’s the making of the maker, and I’m still here, willing to stay.
Pull between burned bright
Fresh sight carves open space
Soared free in thought stumbles
Quiet critic whispers pause
Burn of seeing too clear
