The Will To Give
I’ve tried, I’ve tried
to jut my soul forward
in a giving vein.
I tried and felt good,
I tried and hurt
I get tired
my giving muscles
might be weak
that compassion fatigue they talk about
I got it
A compassion with limits
And as the others continue forth
my shame grows
I told my mom that I would
give her something great
a daughter to be proud
me. someday soon.
or better her.
But I better be happy
to be me
in this strange terrain
in a world where I can change
I don’t know why I get
fatigued so soon, in the therapy room
a big rainstorm cloud
overtakes me, often.
Smells of fear
and frustration in some angles
of this kaleidoscopic evolution,
There wasn’t much of this
straightforward giving and receiving
sharing of the psyches
the living room of childhood.
A therapy practice and me.
Do I need to will it to happen?
Pull myself in and force myself to
this love I want to give.
Concern and care. Compassion and strength.
Love.
I think I must
force myself to give.
My family tree survived by sheer will.
Train my will,
and get on that fucking train
until it feels good to give.
The Will:
Every important deed was done by the will
in my new book.
I talk to shadows in space
they haunt me:
What I could have done but didn’t do
for others
for myself.
I talk to them.
Haunting ghosts
of past experiences
with clients
because I am afraid to
move forward
and do it again, better
The future calls at me
to pull myself to it.
It promises to enliven me
to cure my ills:
these emotions in a rut.
I just have to do it.
Train my focus, and commit.
American writer from Ukraine who is on the road to becoming licensed to be a psychotherapist, and it’s been a struggle.
