Looked On

I have been looked on

and looked on.

Holding tightly to the weights in my fists

being looked on all the while.

I’m expected to hold tightly,

to never falter at the weight,

to have unfailing strength.

My reddening knuckles, 

which glow white when I squeeze out another jolt of energy,

those knuckles are looked on.

Beads of sweat roll out of the soft opposite of my elbows.

I am looked upon.

The beady eyes of the not-so-anonymous collective unconscious

are all pairs of familiar faces - 

being looked on by mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers;

by friends and by teachers, 

by friends of mothers and friends of fathers:

I am looked on.

The weights I hold, I’ve held often.

I’ve been proud to hold them.

Look how I hold them,

add more weight,

make it harder,

watch me succeed.

But now I’m not holding - not showing

but being looked on as

the hands of my white knuckles shake.

My muscles spasm from holding on.

I’m looked on.

I’ve been proud,

I’m expected to hold them

with chains of obligation, I am shackled to the weight.

Tightly now,

hold them tightly

and as we look upon you;

as you are looked upon - 

learn to love the pain that uncertainty gives you 

as you choose to let go or hold tighter.

We look upon your knuckles, 

white in fists.

We look upon your sweat,

fat in heat.

We look upon your muscles,

twitching in strain.

and as you are looked upon 

and looked on

I am looked on, too

as I hold tightly

that which I might 

let go, 

release,

drop,

were I not so looked upon like you.