I’ve been trying to pin down what my interior life feels like these days.
Turns out it refuses to be just one thing.
It’s a parade of metaphors—equal parts awkward, luminous, and a little ridiculous.
Here’s what showed up when I let my soul speak for itself.
My soul is a sailboat in search of a sweet breeze,
My soul is a first kiss with shaking lover knees.
My soul is a seed that fell right through a sidewalk crack,
My soul is a motel room suitcase that won’t ever unpack.
My soul is a cloud whose shape has no true name,
My soul is a wild horse that was once so tame.
My soul is a clock that never keeps the right time,
My soul is a quiet poet who has started to rhyme.
My soul is a runaway train racing on a rusty track,
My soul is a boomerang who never comes back.
My soul is a comic telling a long strange joke,
My soul is 2am campfire lingering with grey smoke.
My soul is the priest, the bride and also the groom,
My soul is a dive bar floor being swept by a broom.
My soul is a love letter that got lost in the mail,
My soul is a hungry wolf who only eats kale.
My soul is an acrobat that is crossing a high wire,
My soul is a superbloom that grew from a wildfire.
My soul is a dragonfly that bounces and darts,
My soul is an actor who forgot all of their parts.
My soul is a sweet smiling little newborn face,
My soul is a finish line without ever being a race.
My soul is a winter window left open at night,
My soul is a star that burns soft pink light.
My soul is a tuxedo left out in a cold September rain,
My soul is a sensitive & spinning antique weather vane.
My soul is a big question mark without any reply,
My soul is a breath that sounds like a deep sigh.
My skin may be a mayfly,
but my soul’s made of much
much much more.
My soul is so many things~
but maybe~ just maybe
~ it’s mostly a door.
Considering taking the leap to explore the poetry/songs/story of your heart by joining me at one of my writing retreats. For anyone who has that stirring inside of them that is ready to written down.
