The Beautiful Violence of Becoming.

THE BEAUTIFUL VIOLENCE OF BECOMING!
Two separate poems, but, as I’ve today realised belong together as a ‘diptych’.

‘Standing Out’ is the assault, the shaping pressure of malice.
‘Still Standing’ shows how the internal alchemy of risk, gratitude and defiant life follows.

I. STANDING OUT

They spat hatred at him
twisted, savage curses
shaped to wound.
Still, inside,
he knew he could love people.

Tears traced his cheeks,
burning like acid.
Still, he found a way to smile.

They conjured chaos,
unleashed havoc as in a playroom of kids
Still, he touched serenity
nestled somewhere beneath his ribs.

They were cold,
heartless as the wind of a blizzard.
Still, he found summery days
tucked deep in his gut.

They did their worst.
Still, he found
his own strange invincibility.

As fiercely as they pushed,
he pushed back, not with fire,
but with something better – stronger.

He stood out from the crowd.
Not because he won.
But because he remained.

II. STILL STANDING

I have to say:
Nature never laughed at stumbles.
It will cushion your spine with bruises,
then watch, silent and smug,
while you decide
whether to rise,
or lie still.

If I laugh, I might look foolish.
But if I don’t,
I’ll forget what joy tastes like.

If I weep, you might call me soft.
But if I don’t,
grief may tunnel its way out
through crueler cracks.

If I reach for you,
you might step away.
But if I never do,
I’ll never know how your warmth feels
outside the crook of my elbow.

If I love,
I might be left loving alone.
But if I don’t,
I’ll remain
unbroken, yes…
but also unbent,
unchallenged,
untrue.

I have risked it all.
Mockery. Rejection. Blame. Failure.
With my dreams on display
it was like juggling quicksilver
on a tightrope.

Of course I’ve fallen.
But the one who doesn’t?
That one never soars,
never scars,
never sings off-key under streetlamps,
nor dances in the throat of a volcano,
nor tattoos their name
onto their own pulsing wrist.

You don’t skip the risk
and still call yourself free.

And listen:-

someone is crying
for the things you curse.
And that dream you discard? Someone would barter
half their heartbeats
just to hold it.

So yes,
reach.
Fall.
Sing.
Weep.
Tremble.

Look around, you’re
waist-deep in everything
you once begged for – so risk it.
Be ridiculous.
Be vulnerable.
Be alive enough to blush.

Because gratitude
should not be quiet.
It should bloom
like blood through cloth;
bold, imperfect,
proof that you lived.

And when freedom knocks,
open the door.
Show the scars.
Lift your chin.
And with scabbed knees,
and a grin that’s seen the worst storms,
say,

“I dared.
And I’m still standing.”

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