There is a hollow core
Of liquid Nothingness inside me
Lashing waters of neverending grief
At lack of direction, spark
Identity, purpose, mission
I’d like to think
It a rumbling Darkness
One that’s initiating me
A Holy Womb of Void
And I, its holder
My only real assignment, as channel
To Be.
I’d like to think
This assignment
Is sacred
Given by the Highest of Orders
Divine and Boddhisatvic
Such is the fantasy nature of my mind.
But who the fuck am I
To carry such a thing?
It makes more sense to think that
What it feels like
When I’m full
Is vast and utter abandonment
Old ancestral feelings
Vast and utter loneliness
Vast and utter despair
That instead of Holy
There’s really just an echoing chamber of anger
At none in human form, but at Spirit itself:
WHY DON’T I HAVE DIRECTION?
WHERE IS MY HOLY PURPOSE?
WHY DO YOU NOT CHOOSE ME FOR A CLEAR MISSION?
WHY ARE YOU SO SILENT?
WHERE HAVE YOU GONE AND WHY HAVE YOU LEFT ME SO ALONE?
And then of course, I wonder
If its a Freudian thing
All about the absent father
A problem
Rather than a sacred thing
And I realize that regardless
Inside this vast and utter emptiness
Whatever it may be
There is something
It is my feeling
Perhaps my sacred feeling
A roiling despair
A roiling grief
A roiling bitterness
And the only direction
In this seemingly echoing desert, this pathless land
Is my pen, to express
This something
Of Nothing
I feel
When I’m full.
Letting Go 