the gremlins are coming up.
the ones that say you do it better than me.
the ones that say i don't have anything valuable to share.
no not here.
this voice, too wild.
even for it's own self.
grown wiley, untamed.
fragments of self littering notebooks,
filling shelves. cohesive ideas rarely grown through to completion.
this secret garden
an unruled jungle
and i am afraid you will walk on by,
afraid there is nothing of beauty here.
afraid that the wildness will pull on you for pruning
and in the pruning something might be lost.
the gremlins are here
saying how it is done
is not how it should be.
how i'm showing up is not the right thing.
holding back naturally happening,
putting off the time,
avoiding the questions,
wanting, looking, waiting for something better.
not taking my own medicine,
i'm drowning out the fears by focusing outside
forgetting that the volume gets louder
every time i turn away,
the soul left behind.
but she is asking to be here.
she is calling me back in
she is insistent that i write.
everyday i do.
but the gremlins show up
they are hungry for my excellence
my undeniable radiance
they won't take anything less than the best.
so i have put them on the task of weeding.
they are now aloud to pull the noise
out of my head
onto the page
to clear space for my soul
because i know
she's got something she's getting ready to say.