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Stillness - A Poem

The day I wrote this poem I wrote the word stillness in my journal as a word to focus on throughout the day, because when we find stillness and allow our minds to let go of all the stuff, we find enlightenment and creativity.


One thing I've noticed in the last few years: I've let the world dictate my thoughts on what I should be doing with my time. I have not given myself over to pure creativity, to taking a thought and letting myself run with its imagination. I'm relearning, reteaching myself to create for the sake of creation.


I used to write stories and poems out of boredom and stillness. I don't do that anymore. Or, I didn't do it for a long time, and now I'm starting to again.


When I opened my notebook to write, I felt frustrated because a clear thought wouldn't come to mind. I felt I had nothing to say, nothing to write. And then I erased the words and rewrote them again, trying to listen to my heart. That's when I allowed thoughts and creativity to flow out of stillness, out of listening to my heart.


This poem is raw with very little editing. I hope you enjoy it!


Finding stillness and creativity

Stillness - A Poem

Still.Still.Still.

I sit in my beach chair

On the side

Of the backyard pool.


I write,

I ponder,

I let the sun bake my skin.


It's hot.

I'm simmering.

Maybe starting to sizzle.


The sun is good.

Because, you know, Vitamin D.

The good stuff—

The stuff that keeps me happy.


The bugs are on my blanket.

The ants crawl over my bag,

And on my books.

I let them

But I hug my toes in close,

Because I don't want crawlies

On them.


Still.

Still.

Still.


I take a breath,

The yoga kind,

The deep kind,

The kind that fills the lungs

And finds relief.


I sigh,

And close my eyes.


Stilness.

I must find stillness.

Because in stillness

Is answers,

Is thought,

Is creativity,

Is freedom.


Still.

Still.

Still.


I breathe

In and out,

In and out,

In and out—

Slowly,

Mindfully,

Focusing on my breath,

Focusing on my lungs,

Focusing on stillness,


Still.

Still.

Still.


My fingers tingle,

A good tingle,

The still-kind of tingle—

Like I can feel every cell

Vibrating,

Buzzing,

Singing to me.

My legs feel it too,

And my chest,

And my head.


And I breathe,

And breathe,

And breathe,

And feel,

And bask

In stillness,

In light,

In freedom,

In creation.


©Sara Ann Comte

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