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STOP! BE WARNED!

This is not a poem

about love and my fall into it

 

NO!

trust me, I hate that crap

Nor is this about my falling-out of love

 

HEAVENS I'D SOON AS DIE!

Rather, this is a poem

about realizing my Soul friend

 

WAIT! I BEG YOU

This is not about the typica, fabled Soul Mate,

but about my Anam Cara

 

THE ANAM CARA

May be a long-dead celtic spiritual yahoo,

beyond my time, for sure

 

BUT WHO CARES! YOU MUST BE MADE AWARE!

I think I have the symptoms of this contagious malady. For suddenly my soul,

with it's state-of-the-art defense system, is a book for this Anam Kara's literary perusal

 

GOD IT'S AWFUL

My walls tumble, the chinks in the armor become rifts

Why have I become aware of my own beauty and light (or lack-thereof)?

 

WOULD ANYONE WANT THIS?

The inability to do as I choose, for my Anam Cara fuels my actions, tests my conscience

and reminds me that I am more than myself, and thus I must awake every morning

 

REALLY WHO WOULD WANT IT

A person who is a home away from home

Who is everyday a blessing, finally proving to you that god exists

 

PLEASE PITY ME; I AM DIAGNOSED WITH IT

Now that I have found my Anam Cara,

change, time, death, or the sublime, can try but fail to break our bond

 

BECAUSE SERIOUSLY,

Chop off your own arm and try to walk away from it.

That's what it is, to try and dismember yourself from the Anam Cara, this person who is a piece of you

 

NOW I FEAR I HAVE DONE IT

I forgot, the final symptom is to spread this plague of old. But it's not all that bad!

You, the infected, won't die alone in this world, but walk arm-in-arm with your Anam Cara.