In autumn I always have a strong urge to let go of all the stories about myself that keep me stuck somewhere unwanted. I wish english was my first language and I wish I could write much much better than I do. 

what is there to do in autumn
other than carrying yourself in your old grief and oldschool vans to the forest 
timidly exposing what your ugly bony hands still hold
not cheerfully but genuinely asking for salvation 
with these words from a Rumi poem in your throat 
"half heartedness doesn ´t reach into majesty" 
this is who I am 
this grief, this story, this identity 
mine, mine, mine 
but I do crave to be good
I do intend to let go
like the trees of their leaves 
I intend to become a tree 
reaching into majesty. 
impersonal. human.  

Thank you so much for the class, it really helped to just write and see it as a practice <3