Fake humility is a lovely stranglehold.

She’ll pull you onto the dance floor,

whispering “you only want attention”

and smile sweetly as she squeezes,

straightjackets,

silences,

shames.

Humility,
the real thing,

 grins and grooves

to unforced rhythms,

just giddy with the thrill

of pouring out her heart
like a box full of crayons

She is happy,

knows it,

and claps her hands
~a dancing, barefoot spirit.

Fake humility rolls
her perfectly practiced eyes

and carefully measures out accusation

“Who says you’re qualified?”

“Who says you’re doing it right?”

“Who says you’re (insert truth and twist) enough?”

I wonder how much beauty goes unsung

unshared

unborn

because of her polite,
vicious
lies.

I want real humility

…to dip and twirl and

 sink and swoop and

 leap and laugh and

 love out loud

with pure raw joy

pulsing through every creative atom
in my being,

to hurl my heart into the universe

and watch in wonder
as the colors splash and spatter.

Fake humility tightens her lips and stabs

“who in the hell to you think you are?”

Real humility drapes a protective arm

 around my shoulder
and raises my chin,

nudging me to see the affirming twinkle

in the eyes of Love

and I dash back

to the unfinished business

of being

simply

me.