Biological Alarm Clock

Posted on by J.T. Homesley

It’s not the human mind, but the stomach that threatens the species most.
That control emotion boasts. The part of you that can’t be left off Buddha’s boat.
The way chemicals grip the gut. Defies all the tricks logic tries.
All the grounding adult responsible ideas. Nullified. Cut and dry.

No one is thinking clearly when they’re clinging dearly to this sinking ship called life.
And the sooner that’s recognized, we’ll devote more school to stomachs than lunch.
A course for the body. Three courses for the mind.
A better answer to the question what to do with my time.
How to take it in stride. How to listen to emotions.
How that is different than blind obedience.

Think about an alarm clock.
Think about the awful feeling it inspires.

If you let it let you, you would crush it into oblivion every time it spoke to you.
Its purpose is entirely unpleasant. But to bring a conscience back to present.
It’s jolting. Hateful. Awful. But essential. Jarringly. Helpful.

This is the nature of negative feelings. Awareness, not action.
To listen. By design, never to obey. Don’t smash it
the way you feel you should. Just match it
in desire to turn bad feelings into good.
Wake up arms. Not take up arms.
Wash sleep off and start your day.

An alarm, not a torture device, buried in your gut.
Could not care less what you do with today.
Just wants to wake you up.

Management

Posted on by J.T. Homesley

Manage your emotions, in order to not be managed by them.
And manage does not mean conquer, or manipulate, or even control.
It means responsibility. Seeking understanding. Not settling on impossible goals.
You must manage your emotions. Or they will possess you.

And you will make rainy days for the people who depend on you,
because you did not put a roof over your self.

Wisdom teething

Posted on by J.T. Homesley

Feeling of small.
Of ignored.
Of no help.

To no one at all.

Of hiding from none seeking.
Of not talking to God.

But singing.

Of pressure mounting against bleeding molars.
Of snipping red skin off the white sides of a torn tongue.
Of being young but not young, not grown.

But growing.

Of being too close to some impossible place.

To reach to quit. To need to quit.

Of wanting to.
Of knowing quitting is better than all options staring in your face.
Of only ever feeling home alone.

But even then, there,
feeling out of place.