Do I have a personality?

Do I have a personality?
I grew up feeling none.
I kept wanting one.

I saw some as persons happy
But I felt lot of thoughts unhappy
I saw some as being persons assured
But I felt unsure of what really mattered
I saw some as being persons positive
But I felt I needed lot more perspective
I saw some wearing their wealth on them
And I felt the need to become abundant
I saw some wearing their success on them
But I felt I really wish I had a passion
I sought to be truthfully joyful
But I felt lot of things to be untruthful

I simply only wanted my own personality
Yet I tried every which way to fit in
Also learned some tricks to blend in
Wherever I Be I became that one
Except it became difficult to keep up

Do I have a personality?
Now supposedly a grown-up
I am not sure I have one

A new friend in conversation
In complete awe of my hard-core choices
Called me in myself an institution
And visiting me a few days later
Found me a sobbing mess of confusion
Befuddled she told me
“Never imagined You could become this”
I confided in her honestly
I needed the friend in her
As much as she used the one in me.
She probed further if I had ever cried
For those times such and such
I said yes I did
When at times I became human as much

This kind friend then exhorted me
That I should be wearing all that I am
And walk out in the world head held high
Gain some confidence and personality

Veracity in the moment doesn’t allow me
To wear anything external on me
I am that I am and I wonder what I am
I live in an attempt of absolute integrity
In all the roles that can be called of me
I show up with confidence or confusion
It is me in that moment feeling fluidly
The only corrugation is of my intention

So now do I have a personality?
You tell me which one you see in me
So do I need a personality?
Or I could just Be what I have come to Be.

 

P.S. Dear Debbie, I gladly contribute this poem to ForgivingFridays, as a gesture of forgiveness for everywhere we judge ourselves for what we are. Thank you for being here.

 

Art of Creation

An artist picks up a paintbrush
To create a view
Knows intently each color and every hue

An artist of life, similarly
Picks up from a palette of emotion
Lends a hand to Creation
Knows each one very intensely
Pain & Joy, Anger & Love, Fear & more
In all their potency
Has felt them all to the core

Picks up on the shades of feeling
As they keep emerging
Knows exactly what would appear on the canvas of life

Both are very skilled at knowing
When to put down the brush or use some more …

When peace eludes

When peace eludes
When purpose seems to lose
When perspective is at ruse
When promises don’t produce
When possibilities simply refuse

Then give up control
Then give up the crawl up the wall
Then give up the stickiness of it all
Then give up the judgment tall
Then give up the unkindness of it all

When the train is stopped on track
When the brain is blocked on black
When the mind doesn’t cut slack
When heart is feeling the break-n-crack

Then the flood of emotions moisten
Then the time is to wait and listen
Then the path as if waiting to glisten
Then the anguish will eventually lessen

When the peace eludes
When the turmoil is profuse
When all the trial is in recluse
When the denial is abstruse

Then the calling is from the Being
Then self compassion is the Seeking
Then the gift is simply in the Breathing
Then love is what helps only from Within
Then more beauty is what breaks Open

P.S. Dear Debbie, please accept this poem as my contribution to ForgivingFridays. I wish to bring forgiveness to all the judgment we bring to ourselves for not being good enough. Thank you for creating the beautiful space to bring peace and forgiveness to our beings.

Just wanting to be Seen

Through the words
Through the face
Just wanting to be Seen

Through the silence
Through the emotions
Just wanting to be Seen

Through how we dress
Through how we stress
Just wanting to be Seen

Through the efforts
Through the turmoil
Finally not caring to be Seen

Through the Self that emerges
Just feeling and Being
From behind those curtains
As if just peeking …

Suddenly you are the Presence
You are the Beauty and Brilliance
Made invisible all this while
Through all the trial
Just wanting to be Seen …

Bound Being, Free Being …with more clarity

You are not bound
You are not free
You are the lock
You are the key

You are the thought
You see but you are not
You are the one
That can see that thought

You are the Being
You think you are the Doing
Doing from the feeling
Feeling from the meaning

Do the doing that sets you free
Do take a step back and see
If the doing you can’t help doing
Is actually not You fleeing

Be the Being
Bound and Free
You are the lock
You are the key

(Originally posted on October 25, 2015 )

Dear amazing readers,
This poem came to me, what feels like, a lifetime ago. From a very deep place of digesting and meaning and feeling. I wish to share it again as it comes as a fresh experience to me today. There is a qualitative difference in the way we feel in life when you are ‘doing’ something to get something vs. ‘being’ something to find something. My mind went back to this poem as I listened to a podcast from Skylarity.

Please share your thoughts on my poem and then go the following link to listen to an elaborate description of what the difference in ‘doing’ vs ‘being’ looks like, in every aspect of life.

https://josiahharry.com/2017/04/25/tms_episode-7-universal-awakening/

Infinite Living is about linking to those infinite energies at work that propel us to the infinite goodness of all of humanity.

Just how did the writer in me get born?

When drippings from a touched soul find their way in writing
A poet is born

When the beauty is undying and the joy so fulfilling
A poem is born

When feelings are heart wrenching and clarity is killing
A poem is born

When a surge comes as discomfort and words pour out
A writer is born

When the harmony felt is such that there is no choice but rhyme
A poem is born

When made-up words bring meaning and no-rhyme verse feels musical
A poetry is born

When living alive to feelings, words come to life
A writer is born

When clarity becomes more intense than the pain that afforded it
A writer is born

When no human around can suffice to contain the expression
A poetry is born

When a release is looking to flow out at an unearthly hour
A writer is born

When words choose the person as if a channel
A writer is born

When none can be planned to rhyme or reason
A poet is born

When human spirit gets broken to million-times-ten pieces, yet finds beauty
A poet is born

When Life decides to peel back layers of truth down to the core
A writer is born

When each level of façade is stripped down to bare soul
A writer is born

When all the suffering was a gift, lived through or let through
A writer is born

When there is no knowing if there is more from where it came from
A writer is reborn

When it comes from a place that is hard to own
A writer is born

When the essence of being is wrung out in best expression
A poetry is born

When it feels like a soft glove over the brutal thing
A poetry is born

When the loneliness in truthfulness is more than can enjoy yet
A writer is born

When inspirations come out of nowhere as if universal cues
A poet is born

Every story a writer writes may not be the writer’s story
But then the writer lives within herself
A thousand lives or the stories of lifetimes
Often that of all of humankind

So if you can just rest
In the drippings of the writers’s soul
Momentarily let go off the sufferings you insist on
A writer would feel content for being born.

The electric Truth

There are some days when
I reach for my electric blue eyeliner
Or sometimes my bright red lipstick
I feel that either of those would make me happy today

And they do!
Once I am done wearing them though
I cannot really see either for myself.
What really makes the difference then?

I suppose so it is with the Choice of living your Truth
Every single day, every single moment
Once you are done choosing them
You don’t see the difference for yourself …

P.S. – I have no idea what category to put this in …it doesn’t feel like prose, nothing rhymes and it is definitely more than few lines …I am going ahead with the category of rhymes for now, as the thought felt rhyming to me but the words didn’t. What do you think?