Why is our mind,
so often steeped in sorrow,
clouded by the bitter smoke
of frustration?
Was it not once—
a canvas clean,
a soft, untrodden path,
a mirror without stain?
The One who shaped us—
who breathed into us a spark—
gave us minds
innocent as the first dawn,
pure as a newborn sky.
But we,
restless in our growing,
poured in the venom
of our narrowing thoughts,
we seeded our fears,
our jealousies, our pride—
into that supple soil
of the soul’s beginning.
And so it grew—
not a garden,
but a harvest of thorns.
A field choked with sharpness,
where no blossom breathes,
and no breeze carries peace.
Now we eat
what we ourselves have planted.
We taste the bitterness
of our own hardened growth.
And we wonder,
why we feel so stifled,
why we name ourselves
frustrated, broken—
why even in silence,
we ache.
Why do we not return—
to that soft, wet clay
of the mind unformed,
where fresh thoughts can bloom
like lilies in spring rain?
When we were children—
how open we were!
How light the truth sat upon our shoulders!
We laughed with our whole bodies,
we cried with honest eyes.
There was no thorn
within our souls.
So why do we not carry
that clarity forward,
that radiant honesty
through all the years?
Why do we let
the world chisel us down
into sharper versions
of ourselves?
*If only*—
if only we could till again
the soil of our minds,
if only we could sow
the seeds of kindness,
compassion,
generosity of spirit.
Then never again
would frustration rise
like weeds in spring.
Then no longer
would our thoughts
turn brittle and cruel,
and no longer
would we forget
that we were born
to bloom.
Let the mind be moist again—
not with anger,
but with wonder.
Let us not reap
the thorns of our own bitterness,
but tend instead
a field of gentleness.
And perhaps then,
we will no longer be known
as frustrated souls,
but as minds
made wide again by love—
and lives
made free again
by light.
---
Would you like this poem shaped into a printed page format or broken into visual stanzas for easier reading aloud or performance?
A meditation on frustration and the soil of the mind)*
Why is our mind,
so often steeped in sorrow,
clouded by the bitter smoke
of frustration?
Was it not once—
a canvas clean,
a soft, untrodden path,
a mirror without stain?
The One who shaped us—
who breathed into us a spark—
gave us minds
innocent as the first dawn,
pure as a newborn sky.
But we,
restless in our growing,
poured in the venom
of our narrowing thoughts,
we seeded our fears,
our jealousies, our pride—
into that supple soil
of the soul’s beginning.
And so it grew—
not a garden,
but a harvest of thorns.
A field choked with sharpness,
where no blossom breathes,
and no breeze carries peace.
Now we eat
what we ourselves have planted.
We taste the bitterness
of our own hardened growth.
And we wonder,
why we feel so stifled,
why we name ourselves
frustrated, broken—
why even in silence,
we ache.
Why do we not return—
to that soft, wet clay
of the mind unformed,
where fresh thoughts can bloom
like lilies in spring rain?
When we were children—
how open we were!
How light the truth sat upon our shoulders!
We laughed with our whole bodies,
we cried with honest eyes.
There was no thorn
within our souls.
So why do we not carry
that clarity forward,
that radiant honesty
through all the years?
Why do we let
the world chisel us down
into sharper versions
of ourselves?
*If only*—
if only we could till again
the soil of our minds,
if only we could sow
the seeds of kindness,
compassion,
generosity of spirit.
Then never again
would frustration rise
like weeds in spring.
Then no longer
would our thoughts
turn brittle and cruel,
and no longer
would we forget
that we were born
to bloom.
Let the mind be moist again—
not with anger,
but with wonder.
Let us not reap
the thorns of our own bitterness,
but tend instead
a field of gentleness.
And perhaps then,
we will no longer be known
as frustrated souls,
but as minds
made wide again by love—
and lives
made free again
by light.
---
Would you like this poem shaped into a printed page format or broken into visual stanzas for easier reading aloud or performance?
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