top of page

Call Me Crazy


I do not consent to the narrative That being rational Detached Dissociated or Numb Is more mature More spiritual More evolved More enlightened More true Than The wild tenderness of my Innocent heart The shaky vulnerability Of consenting to The open cut of feeling Of that place which is both Radiant and raw I will no longer turn away from The hot and holy mess That can never be cleaned And call this progress I admit that I am Forest and ocean: Disorganized Art Made of Medicine I commit now, To learning that language That will never make sense To ear or brain The one of belly and feet and Deep womb of Heart The one that does not explain A single thing The one that does not need you To understand I do not consent To the narrative That I must overcome How completely out of control It is To care this much To feel this deeply To hold the entire universe in My belly I will not attempt to Colonize Or conquer The wild in me I will no longer Pathologise The waves I am done pretending I am not sensitive When the truth is My heart is made of a million Tiny Insect wings I bow to the feet Of the sensitive one I now embrace The immensity Of power Known When I walk the razors edge Of that which is so delicate You must hold your breath To hear it’s voice I am here for the language That is shaky and Uncertain That is slow like honey So slow the mind Can’t catch it I no longer consent to the idea That the unkempt longings Of my soul The unbearable heat of my Desire The immaculate fragility Of my skin Should be neatly sorted Fixed Sewed shut Or understood The vastness of worlds This heart can hold Cannot be justified It demands from me An irrational submission A Total Devotion I no longer defer To the language, values and customs Of the conqueror I honor My willingness To be touched by life To taste the wisdom that is only Revealed When I admit The impossible situation Of just how entangled I really am With every Single Thing I no longer turn away From the bare naked truth Of the fact Of my relationship To all these Holy Others To the threads my heart has woven To the wild truth that cannot be uttered Even by the most skillful tongue This is the language That has been called Crazy Irrational Wounded Weak Inferior And Immature But now I am learning That the wide open truth That can hold it all That can pulse with the passion Beyond reason This, Is what I am living for It is the language of Soul And I am willing Now To hold the flame Call me crazy But this feels sane

-Maya Luna



Commenti


bottom of page