PanOstic

"Oh how you've changed" Why, you're so sweet  To notice how  I've turned, complete  A three-sixty, One-eighty, too, And still more turning Left to do  I won't be still I can't be claimed By notions formed When I was named  I'm more than that -  A title's just  A word to hail This living dust No, I'm much more Than just a word - Come closer and Be enraptured By all the Beauty, Joy, and Grace That lies within This sacred space  For I Am That, Divinity. It shines forever  Here in me. Yes, I Am Sun; And Sky, so blue; And Earth, and Stars; And so are you 

Lately I have been doing a lot of soul-searching... getting to know myself, as it were.  And, among many other things, one thing I have learned is that I am multifaceted. I don't mean in the Universal/spiritual way (though that, too), but rather... my personality; there are many different "me's" in my head. I realize this sounds a bit like I'm describing multiple personalities, and although that's definitely not what I mean... it also kind of is. It was several years ago, before the birth of my first child, before I was even engaged to my first husband, that I realized I had two other, distinct, different "me's".  I described them to my therapist at the time as being a more timid and submissive "Me", whom I lovingly dubbed AJ (an acronym for my legal first and middle names, Amber Janine); and a more aggressive and dominant "Me" I named Miriel, after a character in a novel I'd been writing who had similar character...

Read, set, and here I go To face another day With only my own hand to hold To chase the clouds away Won’t have another by my side To keep my demons back No, I won’t have a lover to Fill me up when I lack I’ll be alone inside myself, My only company But solitude gives me the chance To get to know.. well, Me. My own heart has been long ignored By my own brain - too long! I’ve gotten to know others, but forsook my own sweet song I cannot carry on like this, Not knowing who I am For far too long I’ve only glimpsed And guessed at who I’ve been But now I guess I get the chance To take a long hard look At the girl behind the glass- The woman I forsook So ready, set, and here I come; I’m just around the bend I’ll get to know my Self again I’ll be my own best friend Journy

Sometimes I wonder what I’m gonna write I have no idea most the time Thus is the artist’s, the songwriter’s plight: Will this be a story, or rhyme? Will my words have meaning? Will anyone read these syllables here on the page? And, if the do, will they call me a fool? Or perhaps will they think me a sage? Do I even bother to finish this poem? Perhaps I will stop; start again And then, when I finish, when all is complete Honestly, truly - what then? Does my life go on as it has all these years? Will something about it be new? Will my days cease to matter - will they start again? Tomorrow, will sky still be blue? What is the point, I find myself ponder With every strike of the key: If nothing here changes, no mystery solved, What then is the point? Can you tell me? Sometimes I go over the words that I write And fuss at each line’s counted time “This one’s not perfect; no that one’s not right; “Ugh, that one does not even rhyme!” And ...