Fissures

Somewhere along the way, I decided
to allow the fissures to show,
to add them to the art of my life and not pretend
to be anywhere near perfect,
to allow strangers to peer in and see
the blood leaking, the torn muscles work.

And they do work,
Broken parts and all.
A new kind of art both vague and vivid,
with just enough missing that you cannot help
but notice
just how human I am.

About this poem.

At one point I used to call my life “A collection of mistakes” or “A glorious but not fatal collection of broken parts.” And I wrote about it. I still do, more aware of my flaws than I should be, I put them out here, cataloging them so I don’t have to think about them during the day. Therapy, not history. That’s what poetry is for me most days.

The painting is one of mine, a watercolor called “Fissures”. It’s one of my favorites.

Tom