Skip to main content

Why Is Life So Muddy?

 


Why Is Life So Muddy?


Why is life so muddy,

so messy, so murky,

never clear?

Every decision feels clouded,

judged, debated —

nothing simple,

nothing straight.


Why is clarity so hard to hold?

Why do we get stuck in the mud,

ground down in murky waters,

pulled under by the current

before we even understand

what dragged us there?


Why can’t we just walk the path

into crystal clear sunshine?

There’s always something lurking,

something unseen,

something waiting beneath the surface

to pull us under into darkness.


Covering our eyes,

clouding our judgement.



When we only just

caught a snippet of light,

felt the warmth on our eyelids,

why is happiness always

harder to hold,

harder to see,

harder to breathe,

harder to feel?


Sadness moves quicker —

swift to engulf us,

tight in its grip.

Freedom is light

and breezy,

but brief.

 

WIP - POETRY IT ALL STARTS WITH A VOICE NOTE. 



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie

International Women’s Day — We Don’t Share a Body, We Share a Lie If we’re going to have an International Women’s Day, then let’s at least tell the truth about the one thing we’re all supposed to have in common. We don’t. We should rename it: International Unique Hormone Pattern Day. Because we were raised in a society that pretended everybody has the same period. Same hormones. Same bleed. Same reaction. Same PMT. Same everything. Copy‑and‑paste womanhood. Except now I can list at least twenty things that make one person’s cycle nothing like the next — and yet society made us believe we were all identical. Interchangeable. Predictable. “Women with women’s problems.” My best advice? Period Power by Maisie Hill. Learn your cycle. Learn your system. Know that you are unique. And don’t tolerate anything that feels wrong. That’s literally why we have the NHS. Arm yourself with fact information and go. I knew nothing about periods except that they arrived every month since I was 13 — until ...

An electric toothbrush - love and hate. A poem about a mundane daily action

  An electric toothbrush— love and hate. 27TH NOVEMBER   I love my toothbrush, the circular motion, up and down, round and round.   Is it because I’m left-handed, or right-handed? I put it to the left, look in the mirror, rub my gum more than my tooth. One side sore, one side unclean. I loathe toothpaste. I hate it. I hate this smile. I hate the taste. But I love clean teeth— the touch of the tongue across the front, smooth, shining. Every three weeks, my sore gum returns. I forget what I’m doing, leave it whirling, mindless chore. I love my toothbrush. I love clean teeth. I loathe my sore gum. It’s a pattern I repeat, monthly, weekly, over-brushed, sore gum. When I’m old, really old, I won’t brush my teeth. Fifty years, twice a day, since I was nine or ten. Don’t get me started on toothpicks, tape, wax, gaps. But when I’m seventy-five— no more. I’ll rub the t...

Time (Inner Child Work)

  Time to be a child, said NO ONE ever.