Unincorporated.
In my lifetime, three governments have unsuccessfully attempted to annex my heart.
A few months ago, I spent a full afternoon drawing a weird map of how I see my interior life - I wasn’t exactly sure why drew it until I wrote this poem yesterday.
In my lifetime, three governments have attempted to annex my heart. The first one arrived with flags and stone tablets. The second arrived with diagnoses. The third arrived as “self-improvement.” None ever succeeded. My heart remains an unincorporated island. From time to time, surveyors keep washing ashore. They hammer little stakes into my sand. They draw borders inside of me. They name my mountain ranges. They write reports on my ecosystem. They mine for profit. Meanwhile, the mountains inside of me put on roller skates and refuse to be caught in the same place twice. My rivers are openly hostile to cartography. They drown every attempt to chart me. Entire forests in me have learned how to hide inside the trees. Last year an entire peninsula of mine vanished. Nobody knows where it went. The geologists and psychologists blamed erosion. The pelicans and theologians blamed my lack of God. The God in question refused comment. Typical.
At night strange lanterns appear far inland of my heart. Expeditions are sent. Nothing is discovered except more inland. Every map of me becomes fiction the moment the ink dries. My love, I am not difficult to understand. I am impossible to finish. Don’t annex me. Just let me float in the great mystery. This is what stars do, isn’t it? They have spent billions of years avoiding definition. Every telescope is just another hand reaching out. Every answer just leads to another question-shaped galaxy. I am an uncharted and burning island. Let me burn. Let me burn. Let me burn. ~ john roedel
4-week ONLINE WRITING EXPERIENCE starting next month!
You picked up a pen once because something inside you needed out. Maybe it still does….even if you lost the thread somewhere between the busyness and that little voice whispering who am I to call myself a writer?
“Writing Your Heart Out” is a four-week online gathering for poets, journalers, storytellers, and curious humans who want to come home to their real voice~~ not the polished one, not the performing one. No publishing talk, no algorithms. Just live writing together, gentle prompts, and the chance (never the pressure) to share.
The best writing doesn’t come from getting it right. It comes from getting it true. You’ve lived a whole life nobody else has lived ~ that’s the well. For four weeks, we’ll lower the bucket together.
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I keep trying to discover the foundation I stand on, this “thing” you wrote is making my heart feel free to be tethered to itself, my soul to be a random thought at a random moment - or the total absence of thought. Thank you so much for your offerings - the ‘things’ you write tend to show me to the wind and guide my thoughts to the spirit of wisdom and allow me to realize complete ignorance of the ‘official’ definitions of ‘proper’ is something to cultivate. I grow with each thing I question and ponder. I would go on with the ramble forever, but …. I have ………
This is wonderful! ❤️