War with the Wellness Industry

I’m sick of perfectly curated content.
Well designed profiles,
High paid coaches
Loud voices
Telling me who I should be
How I could be
doing more,
getting more,
creating more,

No, wait,
They say,
do less, just be yourself…
“I can show you how to be you.
It will feel so good to venmo me.”
Fuck off

Even the permissive ones remind me of that which I lack
I gag
Daily
Tired by my newsfeed of sales
These tales of identities we made

How silly.
This Wellness Industry.
So, this is what we’ve become?
A world in constant need of another’s medicine
A people that doesn’t know who they are
An ill species in constant need of fixing

I cling to poetic words,
the few brave souls,
Offering their heart
without the smoke
Still I choke
on the ego’s need to be seen
I scream
In horror of these games we play
From our soap box screens
Hurting and blaming
Pointing and professing
Letting ourselves be blindly led
By the information we are fed
Keeping us in form.
In form.
In duality.
In ignorance.
In suffering.

Don’t count me out.
I’m stuck here, too.
I want to point,
and yell,
and help,
and fix it, too.
Because I am you.
And rebel as I might, I am here
In this form.
In this body.
In this time and space.

But I am shifting my vision,
No longer daydreaming of suspending pain, the end of suffering, and timeless existence.

Instead, I wonder
How may I be here?
Not, how do I get out of it,
or how do I change it?
But how can I be here?
How can I love it?

Move with it.
Breathe with it.
Make as much space as I can
To hold it
The lies we believe,
The ones that shoot,
And the ones that bleed.
The greed,
The hate,
The anger
Hold it love.
Hold it.
The gaze of an owl,
The branch of a tree,
The blooming flower,
And the bird flying free.
The children laughing,
And the gift of music
Hold it with love.

This, I believe to be my task.
My only real reason for being.
To hold the entirety of human existence,
The beauty and the horror,
With love.