Confessions Of A Writer Yogi

I confess when I couldn't remember my dreams upon waking for some months, I worried they may have forgotten themselves.

I confess I love perfect strangers because I believe everyone should be loved for the simple reason they exist. Nothing more. 

I confess I want you to like me and hope you do in the way I am for I refuse to change for anyone. 

I confess I want you to see me with your eyes wondering into my words asking, "How have they come from her there?" 

I confess I rather touch you with hands dirty from loves work than  cleanly protected from connection.

I confess love should be scattered through the streets like confetti at Mardi Gras. 

I confess I want us to plant trees growing older than we ever can to carry our lives into other futures. 

I confess I don't really know where I am going but I'd rather walk forward trying to find direction then stay where I am. 

I confess the universe has a way of helping connecting the dots once you get a pencil and start drawing the line. 

I confess opening your heart to absolutely everyone will give you the chance to make everyone your family. 

I confess my hands were my favorite part of my body until my current position has them scratched, scared and calloused. It scares me. 

I confess I recognize I have a couple crooked teeth and still grin wider getting compliments on my smile. 

I confess my hair does what it wants, making it an interesting mystery and I wish I was more like it. 

I confess I am not perfect. If someone was to offer me the chance to be perfect, I would laugh with my whole body asking "Don't you see the perfection in my slanted lines?" 

I confess I aspire to be a 
long haired
loving
liberal
green tea drinking
less meat eating
crazed dancing
chocolate eating
poetry breathing
erotic novel reading
young eyed
old soul
exploratory 
Ashtanga Yogi.

And That's When The World Will Begin. 


Namaste my friends,
~Chelle aka Writer Yogi