The Illusion of Incompletion

I f(eel i)ncomp(le te, li)ke I'(m a) loc(k on)a doo(r and )so me(one to)ssed a(way t)he k(ey). I'(m c)ra(vin g the o)ther ha(lf of m)e, li (ke a pr)ie(st wh(o's l os)t (hi)s God.

But a friend in a dark alley way taught me to look within, When he lit up the night with a glow of warmth And the smell of cigarettes, Or was it the little boy in the homeless shelter, Lighting up the room with his drawing of a dog, Or was it the woman at the piano who taught me, Pounding out flaming, human heart beats Into dark and dormant night, Or the poet, feverishly typing away, Shooting little sparks into the incessant black, Lighting fires in shadowy souls, Was it he who taught me That we are made complete, That each and every one of us Holds a fire within us, That all we need is there within us, That each and every one of us Is beautiful, unique, Whole.