Life Coach BS

samantha-french

Life is not a sharp knife stab
Delivered with killing twist to vital organs

It’s much more a wandering brush stroke
Unsure of where it is going on paper

Most of our time is spent in the bottoms of wells looking up
And we take pains to remember the view from mountain tops

But sometimes there are people who will tell us things like
the following and we will hear that

“Your time is limited
So don’t waste it living someone else’s life

You’ve got to find what you love
Your work is going to fill a large part of your life

And the only way to be truly satisfied
Is to do what you believe is great work

And the only way to do great work
Is to love what you do

If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking
And don’t settle

Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition
They somehow already know what you truly want to become”

And I know that they mean well in saying these things
And you can take a kind of motivation from them if you hold your head at a certain angle

But don’t be bewildered if you find yourself
Working in fast food or a big box store

Or even sitting in a cubicle behind a computer screen
And doing something that you’re sure a machine brain will do a few years hence

Truth is, you can never live any life except yours
And there is nothing wrong with living it for others if that’s what you feel like doing

The one who loves and believes in satisfaction is found and present
Equally on mountain tops and in bottoms of wells

And true love sometimes is delivered in cold, blunt dumbness
Or knocked into you, like by Cassius Clay or Sugar Ray

It’s hard to hype the silly thing that lies behind every burnt rainbow and bowl of Frosted Flakes
But it’s all right, if you’re reading this, then it isn’t lost

It never was lost, not when you were locked up, mopping floors, cleaning urinals, rubbing shoe marks off floors with a tennis ball on a pole or painting apartment hallway walls

When you tossed pizza dough, dropped fries in the fryer, changed the hotel sheets and sorted large, flat trays of silver ware

It was there when you were pulling weeds and in the crawl space scared of spiders, Picking fruit and changing your tire on the side of the highway

The mystery never stops except when you search for it or try to believe
In something other than what is

Truth is curved reflections on hollows bubbles blown,
Floating, popped and raining down in a gentle mist

July 28, 2015

Previously published in
Sheep & Monkey Poems

Art: Samantha French

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