By Melissa Hargrave
I don’t deal in regret.
There is no maybe,
what might have set,
what could have been regularly.
The moment is my refuge.
What happens here stays here,
just like the famous venue.
The present is my Shakespeare.
You don’t have to tell me,
the precious nature of now.
But explain why we must first be absentee,
before experiencing the significance of Thou?
Why must (hu)man endure a dry season,
dying of thirst traversing a desert of his own creation?
Without purpose, rhyme or reason,
begging to unknown entities for cessation?
It often isn’t until the bitter end,
right after our swan song,
that (hu)man is able to transcend
and realize they had it wrong all along.
I’m not about that death bed regret,
I won’t be caught off guard.
I’ll break it down for you without fret:
I died already, out front in the vanguard.
This death of self identity
is metaphysical in nature.
I realized my ego was an obscenity,
thought forms, classification, hollow nomenclature.
I decided the ‘little me’ should die.
Cut it off, in the blink of an eye.
Who I thought as ‘me’ was just a convoluted lie.
Try to determine where it all went awry.
Sometime around my second year of life,
The concept of ‘me’ and ‘mine’
triggered the formation of self created strife.
That’s when things began to misalign.
I began to separate from my true self.
Don’t you see? I created a false identity.
Concerned with likes and dislikes, in and of itself,
I was no longer free, but instead a mockery.
I became a tour-de-farce,
Completely unaware I was living sparse,
and that I had become truncated.
Inside me was the universe –
an endless vein of dark energy –
connecting us all free verse,
like some cosmic chaotic synergy.
Unable to access it,
I was dead within, focused without.
Completely blind to the counterfeit;
Living life as a sellout.
Until the day that all changed.
I stood on the brink of internal confusion.
I am and ‘me’ had become estranged;
Who I had become was merely an optical illusion.
The mask began to chip away.
Oh, what a mess it made!
I still find pieces to this day.
The scars left behind continue to fade.
The stripping away of the new
reveals the original hue.
Out of confines I grew
into a being that is true.
The ego is crafty.
Classification, thoughts for hire.
It pops up daily in attempt at rafferty,
But I now choose what I pay and what I fire.
On that day I stood tall,
at the foot of my death bed, metaphysically.
Knowing that to start anew I’d have to crawl,
And this transformation was aphoristically.
The past has faded.
The future doesn’t exist.
Time is illusorily jaded.
Now is nativist.
How can I have regret
when I know nothing external defines me?
Person, place, thing, noun, idea, bad debt,
they mean nothing when you’ve been set free.