( Must Read "How Fast Can You Run" First )

Guess What?  I Let It Go!
Did You Know? !

djbeaulieu, 10-13-07

I sit here in this lonely place I call home.

Do you remember when I asked you,

“I wonder where all this pain will flow to

when I have to let go?”

Well now I know.

The beers I do not drink still help,

but now it’s an image to an idea.

Its an idea from my imagination, my mind--

which finds a thought were non use to be.

Perhaps, its a nightmare or a dream.

It’s like trying to create something from the invisible.

I had to find all of the pieces in order to let it go you know!

I just did not know how. Did you?

Was it a secret or just the usual stupidity for me?

Like dramatic irony, did you see it coming on cue?

But, as usual, not me !

Could you feel my pain?

Could you understand?

Did you know of death and pain?

As usual, no bird in my hand, not me ?

Did you know where God was all the time?

My soul is still MIA, but not so my mind,

so I do really care. Do you?

Was I the only one running?

I seemed to be all alone with my fear.

Did you see it too and not care?

I never noticed your hand reach out, see a tear,

or feel a hug.  Only fear!

Did you reach out to me and I not see –

 was I blinded in the binding of a spell?

I remember being spit on.

Do You?

I remember having cigarette buts flicked at me.

Do You?

I remember being called,

“fuck’n baby killer,”

Do You?

But, I didn’t do it!  Do you care?.

Was it you? If not, then who?

Am I just a scapegoat to be ridiculed?

Are you wondering what happened when I let “it” go?

When I let the pain, the agony, the anger,

and the forever stream of silent tears

that trickled down my cheeks -- go?

How come you never noticed?

How come it had to be me?

How is it God had forsaken me?

How come I lived and so many did not?

How come I had to create collateral damage

and not you?

You, who drove drunk and killed my baby boy.

You, who miss-diagnosed, and my aunt died.

You, who could not be bothered to do your job

and my mother passed into God’s light.

Guess what – my dad cried when he had to live alone.

It’s called a broken heart.

And, you, Miss Driver who just “flipped me off”-

what gives you the right?

I did my job as best I knew how. 

I did not “flip any one off;” I kept my wits about me;

made no mistakes, mine were built in,  they call it war.

AND HERE IN lays the rub, the real irony, the paradox.

I was defending you and your rights.

Yah, I’m the one who helped you stay free

So you could drive drunk, so you could kill a child,

so you could “flip me off;”

so you could spit on me;

so you could use me to flick your butts at;

so you can be lazy at one of the most

important professions on this earth 

and be a lousy doctor.

What about you dear teacher who said,

“I could never be more than marginally functioning”?

She was nun.

--------------------BUT, through it all: ------------------

Thank you, dear people, for giving me the chance to serve you.

Thank you, God, for allowing me to live

so I could teach your children and theirs

with all I had, day after day.

Thank you for allowing me to stay in

 the country that I fought for.

I gave you back an architect,

a director of operations,

a world class designer,

a genetic engineer,

an FBI agent,

Anastasia –who plays in heaven

And oh, yah -

God gave you back me.

YES, you are correct, I’m an angry

 man filled with pain and agony.

BUT,

That was a second ago, now –

I let “it” go!

I’m free now, I let “it” go, but you did not

make it easy for me.

How come you knew and wouldn’t tell me?

Here is the best of it my friends, my readers, my sons,

my daughters, my students, my associates,

and all the universes –

when I let it go, my dear earthly friends, it

became a blue Morphos butterfly.

Is there anything as beautifully or as intricately designed

as the sparkling powder of a butterfly’s wings,

or the powerful, metamorphosis and the spirit of gossamer wings?

NO, there is not!!

from

Dream Waver

djb

No part of this article may be reproduced or copied

 in any form without written permission from the author.  Printed by Author’s Den 2007