Great for readers who enjoy the poetic introspection of Yung Pueblo, the spiritual musings of Ram Dass, the timeless wisdom of Alan Watts and the raw self-inquiry of Rupi Kaur.
Poetry with reckoning, surrender, and a quiet revolution. It speaks to the ones who have burned through identities, walked the tightrope between spiritual materialism and genuine awakening, and found themselves standing in the ashes of everything they once believed—only to realize the fire was never the enemy.
Through rhythmic reflection and sharp, unfiltered honesty, this collection moves through ego deaths and rebirths, the unraveling of false selves, the longing for connection, and the raw, unpolished beauty of simply being. It doesn’t seek to tell you what is true but invites you into the space where truth reveals itself—between the lines, in the pauses, in the moments where you recognize yourself.
This is for the seekers, the wanderers, the ones who have loved and lost themselves, only to find something even deeper in the process. If you’ve ever questioned your path, your purpose, or the stories you tell yourself—this book is a quiet hand on your shoulder, reminding you:
You are always exactly where you are meant to be.
Great for readers who enjoy the poetic introspection of Yung Pueblo, the spiritual musings of Ram Dass, the timeless wisdom of Alan Watts and the raw self-inquiry of Rupi Kaur.
Poetry with reckoning, surrender, and a quiet revolution. It speaks to the ones who have burned through identities, walked the tightrope between spiritual materialism and genuine awakening, and found themselves standing in the ashes of everything they once believed—only to realize the fire was never the enemy.
Through rhythmic reflection and sharp, unfiltered honesty, this collection moves through ego deaths and rebirths, the unraveling of false selves, the longing for connection, and the raw, unpolished beauty of simply being. It doesn’t seek to tell you what is true but invites you into the space where truth reveals itself—between the lines, in the pauses, in the moments where you recognize yourself.
This is for the seekers, the wanderers, the ones who have loved and lost themselves, only to find something even deeper in the process. If you’ve ever questioned your path, your purpose, or the stories you tell yourself—this book is a quiet hand on your shoulder, reminding you:
You are always exactly where you are meant to be.
A Note from the Author
I wrote this book over a decade—without even knowing it.
What began as a personal practice of documenting my life through reflection and the joyous weaving of experience into words slowly became something more. Over time, as I looked back, I witnessed my own transformation—logged in ink, captured through the lens of lived experience.
At certain stages of life, I remember feeling so entrenched in my reality, convinced that this was the way it was—unchangeable, absolute. And then, it always changed. Again and again, I found myself shifting, shedding, evolving—until I began to recognize the fundamental nature of impermanence as it unfolded through my own existence.
This poetic memoir begins with my most recent writings, looking back on a time when I had built an image of enlightenment—collecting every spiritual knickknack, practice, and philosophy I could get my hands on. From where I stand today, I hold my younger self with softness and acceptance, knowing that one day, I will do the same for the person I am now.
So why wait?
Why wait to laugh at our old selves when we could laugh now at who we are today—with the same release, the same freedom?
everything to prove
remember all those times
you collected things—
memories,
knick-knacks,
"treasures,"
relationships—
as if filling the emptiness
could silence the ache.
you sat alone at night,
in a house of "beautiful" things,
a museum of distractions,
as the swelling inside
whispered:
inadequacy.
not-enough-ness.
and still,
a silent burning desire
to prove—to yourself,
to everyone—
that you were more than those things
you feared you’d always be.
too long
remember when you did your best
to look into the eyes of everyone you met,
holding the gaze
just a little too long—
telling yourself
that if you kept staring,
kept listening,
kept focusing outward,
you could save "them."
because if you were saving them,
you wouldn’t have to speak
about the quiet weight
you carried inside.
with a sincere nod
and the perfect silence,
"they" would feel your presence,
and you could walk away,
adding another small victory
to the illusion
of a depth you believed
everyone saw in you.
new age
maybe it was the infectious new age,
manifesting as an awakening—
like a Halloween costume of enlightenment,
draped in garbs that whispered stories
of wisdom and kindness,
of an all-loving epicenter of a human,
blessing the world
with a radiant and unique light
you were so proud to hold.
you wished "others" could find it too,
and told yourself
how hard it was to be so conscious,
so aware of the social dilemma—
watching everyone suffer.
everyone, except you.
but really,
perhaps,
only you—in the end.
cultured
you had traveled the world,
seen so many things,
and you really "got it."
you had found the way.
the way.
and, of course, it was the best way.
sometimes, you’d fall short of this way,
stumble off the path
you had so beautifully dreamed,
discovered,
and designed.
as if the path
could ever truly be fallen off.
it’s all the same path, isn’t it?
you had learned so many practices,
and if only you could
do them all,
sequentially,
with terrorizing precision,
you could rest
at the end of the day,
look back,
and attach another golden label:
"perfect."
"nailed it."
"so good."
yet, a subtle void
spoke softly,
whispering a different story.
but with feet off the ground
and head lost in the clouds,
the message faded.
and so you drifted,
into another lucid slumber
of spiritual materialism.
cheeseburger with a side of epiphany
remember the smell
of burning flesh,
chargrilling on a nearby barbeque,
and the judge's hammer
smashing violently
in the courtroom
of a turbulent,
restricted mind.
savages.
unconscious.
betrayers of the light.
wicked in their ways,
veiled by gluttony and greed.
but really,
just a group of friends
making hamburgers.
and a lonely "rainbow,"
watching from afar,
making "them" wrong
for enjoying life
in "their" way,
in this moment,
at that time.
just like you.
savior
wake and breathe life into the day.
it's time to get high—
real high.
on sunshine, movement, and water.
the natural way.
you're a winner.
you do it all right.
can you believe
the drugs we’re addicted to?
the socially acceptable,
anxiety-driving caffeine culture.
the sense-numbing
alcohol tribes of our time,
lost in worlds of illusion.
why talk so much
about things?
can we take a moment
to feel?
you are better.
but don’t let them know.
sit alone in triumph,
on your empty throne
of a self-fulfilled prophecy.
you will save so many today.
stay light on your toes.
don’t draw roots to the earth just yet.
as an old friend would say—
it’s all love, light,
and bullshit.
no escape
what is self-love,
if not deeply felt?
can a construct of mind
be truly that delightful?
chains are chains,
rusted or gold.
there is no escape
from the prison of ourselves—
only a reckoning,
a discovery
that we all dwell
within walls of shape and sound,
each unique
to the structure of our souls.
so paint them
however you’d like.
bend the bars,
smash the windows—
but you’ll never get out.
so find a way
to be free within.
The title of Sean P. Russell’s Love, Light & Other Beautiful Lies: A Poetic Memoir of Spiritual Materialism alone is enough to intrigue anyone who is paying enough attention. The juxtaposition of the word “lies” after “light” and “beautiful,” and the jarring pairing of “spiritual materialism” hint that this book might be less the whimsical musings of a doe-eyed and well-meaning (but nonetheless naïve) new-age newbie and more the writings of a person who has experienced the vaster spectrum of life’s acmes and setbacks. And, indeed, Russell delivers on this assumption in a poetry collection that starts in the present and works its way backwards through his journey. The sections in the collection are ordered: 2025-2022, 2021-2018, 2017-2015, and 2014-2012. And the poems within each section correspond to the years they were written. In this way, the sectioned eras act as both a clever time-traveling shorthand device, and an accurate insight into the author’s personal and spiritual state during each period.
The beauty of opening with the most recent section of poems (2025-2022) is that we see Russell’s humility as he questions his older modes of what he thought a spiritual journey was “supposed to look like" or how he was “supposed to be." And this instantly endears us to him as a fallible person (just like us) who is not above poking a little fun at his past missteps or oversights and is not afraid to share them. I enjoyed this collection. Russell writes about nature, self-discovery, spirituality, love and life in moving but not overburdened lines. This is a collection that feels refreshing. There is introspection, elucidation, and just the right amount of play happening on the page. I found myself nodding, smiling, and feeling a sense of lightness while reading many of these poems. The kind of feeling (part nostalgia, part relatability, part something else) that is fleeting and difficult to explain but, when present, is treasured.
I would recommend this book to anyone who has uttered the phrase “Man plans. God laughs.” and then laughed at their own misunderstanding of the path but continued down it anyways. And to anyone who still thinks sheer willpower can iron out every centuries-old root and fallen boulder from the gnarled trail ahead. And certainly, to anyone who feels the wisdom, unburdening, and alchemy in one of this book’s epigraphs that quotes Alan Watts as saying: “You are under no obligation to be the same person you were five minutes ago.” Thank you, Sean P. Russell, for reminding us that we don’t have to always take ourselves so seriously to create something beautiful.