I wrote this poem to start a conversation about healing and emphasize that the key to happiness lies within ourselves. We all have the power to create our own realities, let go of anger, detach from our past stories, and see the glass half full instead of half empty. Enjoy reading and please let me know what you think. Let's start a conversation!
The Cure
When waiting becomes a virtue, we call it patience.
When patience becomes unbearable, we call it waiting.
He is going to be here soon, that’s what he promised.
The staircase is cold, her back is sore, and her eyes are tired from watching the dust dancing in the beam of light that is coming from the small window in the hallway. The light is slowly diminishing. The beam is getting slimmer. Soon it’ll be gone. Hope. Trust. Soon to be broken. Time doesn’t wait. Not even for him.
Her little backpack is packed. She is ready to go. He is going to be here soon, that’s what he promised.
It’s admirable how the sun and the moon take turns in watching over the world, she thinks. Consistency. That’s all she wants for her little cosmos. When the moon rises, the light will diminish and she will have to go back inside.
Please be quicker than the moon, she prays. He’s going to be here soon, that’s what he promised. She’s sitting in the dark now, a door opens and another one closes.
“Come back inside, honey. He’s not coming.”
Waiting for the summer. Waiting for courage. Waiting for the right moment to say what I want. Waiting for a cure. Waiting for an email. Waiting for a message. Waiting for the summer. Waiting for courage. Waiting for the rig…..
Trapped in an eternal loop.
I don’t trust the sun to rise and the moon to be there on time. I don’t trust the world to be the same when I wake up. I don’t trust you to come back. I don’t trust you to be there when I wake up. Projection.
Waiting for my coffee. Waiting for you to say something. Waiting for the mountain to come to the prophet, because sometimes the prophet won’t come the mountain. Waiting for the right moment to say what I need. Waiting for the cure.
And then I stopped. I am not wearing a watch anymore, I freed myself from the tick that enslaves me to the tock. I stopped waiting.
I am healed. I have scars, but I am healed. And the cure? It was right here. Always. Right inside of me: Forgiveness.
I forgive you for not showing up and I thank you for being here now. I forgive myself for waiting for everyone but myself. I am worth showing up for and tomorrow, I might be five minutes late but I’ll always show up. For myself.