just beyond control.
I eat the building passion, stuffed down my throat,
the intensifying energy shooting out my fingers flailing,
hard frequency emitting from brainstem
my eyeballs panic to block. (Anywhere but here.)
Like a switch thrown down
Too late… Too much….
I am done in.
The agony wins
and I am nothing
with no awaiting joy.
My mistake was in seeking control,
was in fighting. When pain is divinely willed,
only surrender of self will bear any fruit.
I don't call myself a poet — but the beating of my heart is poetry. I don't call myself a theologian — but the light of my mind seeks the Divine. Who I am is a Child of God, a Divine Creation, a person devoted to being fully human, fully alive.