I want to be real --
like Pinocchio, like the Velveteen Rabbit.
Loved into realness from the wooden ache of forced smiles,
the bitter music of insincere laughter.
Eyes, come rest in yourselves.
What you desperately seek -- the safety of certainty --
cannot to be found in this existence.
I want to be real -- naked in the light.
I want to see myself simple, no tricks.
And not necessarily quiet all the time either except inside.
Even in joy, the silence inside.
Even in the roaring, raging tumult of my heart --
silence inside.
I want to be real -- no tricks, winks, nods.
No slipping by on charm,
no squeaking by on cleverness.
And I am so clever --
so quick and nimble in thought and tongue --
that I am often ahead of myself.
A head of myself -- but not the whole.
I want my face to be as real as my knees, ankles,
the skin on my forearm.
There's no tweaking those to fit expectations --
they rest there unassuming, just doing their jobs.
I want simple eyes --
a bland face that can fill with some warmth of God.
I want a child's face -- no guard on delight or pain.
I want to be real.
© 1997 Barbara McAfee
Please contact Barbara for permission to use poem -
(612) 840-9255
