the antithesis of a yogi

language can open doors to new worlds (so they say)

but like any door, language can also lock you away

mouth-deep in meaning-making it'll lead you astray, i mean

this week alone i've been writing almost three poems a day

each one a desperate exhale signaling the recurrent decay of my peace...

it's easy to feel like i'm caught in some mental melee

where i'm haunted by verses that so easily slipway before i can catch them,

thoughts tripping over thoughts

i wonder when i became comfortable enough to put my heart on display

~~~

Patanjali teaches "yoga is the cessation of the disruption of the mind-stuff"

and in that regard i'd be considered the antithesis of a yogi;

a bard making believe they're a sage

must be why my therapist asks me to step off the stage

lift my pen from the page and pick up a paintbrush instead

create with colors and images, put all these words to bed

at least for a little while.

at least until i can be a little less hostile towards my own profile,

the one i see in the mirror, the one i continually compile online.

~~~

and speaking of online; i fucking hate that place

nothing feels more like a slap to the face

than the feeling i get as i compare myself

to them and to them and to them and suddenly,

comparison has stolen my joy right out from under me.

~~~

& how do i get it back, you ask?

well, ironically, by practicing yoga;

by chanting to empty my mind

by planting both feet on the sweet, sweet earth

until she grants me contentedness,

until it's enough to remember my inherent worth

isn't attached to a screen.

until, deep in meditation,

i visualize myself with no face and finally feel seen.