we’re not meant
to bend this way
will always
revert back
to upright
Tag: Art
six, seven, eight
battered ribs
shattered nose
rattling skull
the taste of blood melted plastic,
the only good thing
is the cool canvas brushing my right cheek like my mothers palm.
i want to stay here,
staring eyes like a night sky
all so, obstreperous
for frame of reference;
like the first round, no faces
no names just eyes, flashes,
hazy-
than a meteor crashed into my skull
twice
and
i
still see those stars
re(turn) to an empty church
they worry;
wonder where –
wonder where – they’ve gone
leader to the silent prayer
like a roach with poison.
they still love, you
carefully manufactured poison
with love, but you must
know
you’re an imagineer
carrier of this art, this message
this this this-
you carried everything, in place
not a scratch a dent
the burnt pages were dealt with care-
never questioning
never wondering
just- keeping.
you worried, they appreciated
they’re back – in silence
round trip
we all
die
once
it’s the second time
we finally breathe
silence of the lambs
i don’t remember
what it was before
now;
chances are somethings were the same
just nothing that mattered.
i remember thinking
back then,
that i deserved what i got
if you didn’t work for it
like really work for it
than it wasn’t for you;
just not everyone gives equally
keeping you in the bottom of a well
to be mocked
to be trashed
to be reminded that they have you on a leash
and they control the slack.
i remember thinking
that those days
those days
were a peak.
they bury
you,
whether you’re out
sinking
or digging
that well isn’t for you
fivefivefive
change on the way
heart sized fitting room
closed until further notice.
return
just waiting
by an ajar window,
listening to the flute player two floors up,
for a sign.
now;
it’s been two weeks
and the flute player is gone
window is closed and i found my lost muse.
friendship level one oh two
keeping the battle going
from an open window
thinking about that flute player and their return.
rose trimmer
roots in a field of buds
horns with blood
weep for their sisters
until next spring
the next bounce
the next bloom
beyonce
i believe in you
chillin’ on Watkin’s street
fading way into next week
falling at the knees oh i’m weak
will be here till next week
after that
no guarantees
traveling climate
i think about that cloud
from time to time
wondering if it made it home safely
Saint's Muse 