Dying

There is a voice always speaking

It says I'm never enough. 

That I will never be nor should I try. 

That I'm not worth being. 

But I am and I keep trying.

The battle is daily and I try to ignore the screams.

Yet they work their way in and deplete the roots I try so desperately to tend and grow within my psyche. 

I'm just one of those without a "green" thumb. 

The only things that seem to cultivate are poison weeds.

Some days it's an ocean with waves overtaking my breath,

Then it ebbs slowly.

Oh, that time is immeasurable, splendid. Even if for only a moment.

But those waves always return; sucking the breath right out of me, assuring me I will drown. 

Yet I don't.

Then there are those days where the breeze ruffles the flowers and grass as I lie in the sunshine within the scent of just being.

The leaves whisper stories of history past and all that is to be. 

I am content. I listen.

Then the clouds gather, the skies turn grey, and the rain begins. Oh so lovely rain. You cleanse me of the world we live in, even just for a moment.

It is worth every single drop on my skin and on our Earth.

Raindrops are themselves a rebirth of sorts.

I beg you to aid in cultivating my true roots. Water them with your strength and sustain them with your boundlessness.

There is only so much I can do.

And I'm weary, so very weary. 

Sprinkle me with your miracle.and allow me to thrive.