Can you look in the mirror?

Can you look in the mirror honestly? Does it tell you the truth of who you are? Does it show you in bold all the little secrets you hold?

Can you look in the mirror with pleasure? Are you able to observe the crease of time on your brow? Do you see the lines you’ve said displayed on your head?

Can you look in the mirror with trust? Has your reflection morphed too? Do your eyes look at you with pride or is it behind the lids you still hide?

Can you look in the mirror with dignity? Did the ego wash away in the shower? Are you seeing yourself as well and taking that nakedness into the words you tell?

Can you look into the mirror for long? Is it a gentle and confident exchange of sight? Do you see a human with intentions pure or a facade to procure?

Can you look into the mirror and see truth? Do your eyes relay back to you reality? Do your lips form the way they appear as you speak or are they cracked and breaking speech?

Can you look into the mirror and rely on it to be accurate? Does it show you who you really are? Will your reflection last to be who they see you as or will you be a reflection of your past?

Can you look into the mirror and smile? Are you the same in both dimensions? Are you honorable in the eyes of those that seek you to be reliable?

Can you look in the mirror? Can you stare at yourself long enough to see your soul? Can you keep seeing yourself the same or will the mirror shatter under your shame?

Can you look in the mirror? Can you be present enough to see who you really are? Will you be able to be whole and clear and good away from the mirror?

Whats in my mirror?

Where do I stand when I look in the mirror? My feet lost in the abyss and my mind in space. What part of me should I be looking at? I’m not sure what part to observe.

Do I start with my hair? The mane of a lioness that flows into the ethereal and sheds its warnings to poachers that I, have been here, this Space I claim, and I will return. The nest of knots that have interlocked and woven together with little outside assistance and certainly less time in process of realignment of strands to be side by side. The firey and wirey reachings of keratin and pigment that swirl and stretch, break snap , and grab onto the fury of expressions through the crown. Tendrils swaying lower and peering over my back and softly teasing my bosom.

Do I then follow the lingering locks? Loaded and unloaded, lifted and left empty breasts of past time beauty that will never have the lust again. Mounds of nutrient and nourishment now perused over like leftovers and cold storage. The swaying between sensual and supplementation has ceased yet the sloping has increased. Drippings of sustenance silenced and the yearning for connection screams. Etchings of years of experiences fall off the front lines and lean into a flattening scape of exiting excitement, lowering the gaze to the maze of the puddling of passions passed.

Do I pass through the ridges, over my roughened experiences of readiness? Rafting beyond the wild and untamed rivers that flowed out of the canal of my womanhood, where woman meets child and child becomes woman. The carvings in the rites of passage as the pathway was stumbled upon and often into. Paddling with fervor and full force embracing the waves and then, knocked out of the steady ship. Sinking deep into the plundering of what treasures would later surface to prove the journey is a darker blue than previously mapped. Out of the womb and wondering, now with proof of the seekers and the seers which now navigate the tides of life.

Should I lead with the lead that is in my step? Prying up the anchor of taking a stance and stabilizing with air underfoot I could focus on the pose of disposition. Repositioning the weight of wavering from flying and being pinned down my peddlers wane. Wanting to dance on the light of the angels flight but find the fight bringing the soul back to earth with the soles planted. En route, I am rooted and often rootbound, washing the soil off the arches where it still aches to curve in deeper from all the eggshells found in the gardeners path of composted dreams.

Ah, the dreamer of the dreams. The constant streaming of the “whats and what ifs.” Housed in a hard casing of in cases and protective barriers and screams in the middle of space. Pacing back and forth in the grey matter walking back and forth to the “what matters,” the equilibrium tipping the scale of reality and imaginary. The creasings, within ceasing to end the firing of thoughts full of delusion and fulfilling the illusion that the reflection of which the synapses connect recreate a connection. Direction of the waves dependent upon what is decides to replay. The brain, the sane, the same, the endless game of what is next and how to recollect what was witnessed as life.

Don’t let me forget, there is the life giver. The holder of golden slivers that are made with the dreams and stored as hope in the beating heart. Pulsing with the vibrations from the messages of purpose, proposing a rhythm to play to, sing to, dance with. Its warmth reaching through the entirety and simultaneously halting the course. Coursing with crumbles of ice cubing the cells intended to carry liquid thicker than water and bursting through barriers of self inflicted boundaries. It could be bound by the constrictions or confines of the coldness’ shiver. Yet, still it shimmers the prayers lining of reflections and silver.

And here I stand, in the reflection. The beginning and the end of what end to discover first. Which part interlaced within is the best and which is fraying at the ends as the worst? Through only the gaze of my view can I be observed. The iris interpreting what is pure and intentional or what is purely absurd. Refocusing and closing the lids of reality leads the creation of what could be seen upon the opening of the scope, my self microscope. Wipe the lense from the condensing vision of pleasing all other visions and watching as the singular is perceived as divisions. Left and right and pleading to combine the idea that the ideas are one. The view is changing, and as it is rising the veil too lifts to reveal the gaze back is mine. This is where from all time it ends and begins in self reflection.

We as a people

Is there a line and where then shall it be drawn? When will they wake up in the morning and see that it’s dawn? At what point does the display give way and cause the moral decay? It’s happening now. Wake up and let growth be allowed. Put aside all the pride that you think you hide inside. Step out into the world with a new design. Step up and make a difference with your voice that separates from indifference and become a reference. For the unified voices that took a stand and demanded choices. More options to choose from , options that didn’t rob a mother from son, where has all of this begun, we have run away from what is right based on connection and concern for humanity and turned into a brainless mob lead by the sheep’s best of the herds society. Creating disaster amongst the ones that are the keystone of our entirety, entirely way too much empathy inactivity and inactively seeking better ways because you think you are right. Your righteousness reigns high while having your family by side, mocking at the ones you’ve abandoned from their kin, reading fireside with approval in your grin. Tell us of sin. Here are the stones, I’ll let you begin. Knowing that if we were to start, we’d be here all night. listening to your boasts of they’re wrong and you’re right, for the “party” you’ll fight., once again losing sight that it is we as a people not us against them and defining worth for others based on color of skin. Damnit that needs to end., like never should begin, not now not then and we as a people should mean we all are brethren.