Parts of Poems I've Written; A directly connected yet separate art form

I’m from a place that etches you as an artist. Three dimensional, two dimensional. I don’t give a fuck, just give me something to do art with. I don’t need to make a living, I am living.

What you have done to me is like spreading ashes without ceremony

Your tears should be hot as you slide into the dawn of eternity 

You should be lying on this earth but my flesh has gone cold from a raping of my sanity

Instead humanity holds me as a product of aesthetic vanity 

Scraping my skin into concoctions for cold hearted flesh

While mining the abscesses 

To collect my puss as something worn through a cycle of destruction 

You see the ground with sorrow in its eyes as I pulse for my last breath 

I am your mother 

Choking on my own blood

And pleading life from the children who are killing me

I refuse to suffer from the mistakes of others

If we are all one 

Then their mistake is my own 

But my liberation can also be theirs

Instead of standing tall in anger

I will lay low as a mountain woven to this earth

Even with this realization

I find myself wrapped in the waves of my own tears

And ask myself if eyes can drown

Surely the answer is no

For none of us have moved from our bodies 

In the celebration of death

Instead we move hot salt as liquid 

From the depth of our fleshen feathers 

We seek peace in the chaos of this motion

Peace as a cry of comfort 

In the arms of our swollen souls 

Water weaves into the shape of a mouth and delicately forms into a texture of the perfect commitment to swallow the thread, to let it flow from us and leave us strung to the blanket of existence. Purpose blooms between our toes and wraps across our calves to grab onto our thighs and grow across our torsos, necks, and heads. This purpose is fed by rivers flowing to outline the contours of our cells; crashing into oceans as our eyes and building an oasis in our mouths where our purpose blooms from its thirst, quenched by the basis of our forms. Without water we are dragged from our selves with empty hands to dry in the dirt caked between the crevices of our palms. As this reenactment of bone on bone, we thirst for our bodies and drink from the wells of our cells until they have gone dry. Dust caked between our eyes is a symbol of misdistribution to the famished. Be it from the hands of a self or the hands of an earth, we are the potential to wither. But we are also the potential to bloom.

Wind streaks through our vision as the epitome of common sense

It is not common tendency 

But now it shakes our bones until they crumble from the soles of our feet

We are walking on the wind

We are walking on the swollen fragments of our bones

We are falling from our own skins and tying our bodies as flaps

To block us from the winds of our senses

We blow as folding flesh

With our spirits proudly watching our bodies act as our own shelters 

It all started with a drop

And our sound flickered as silence across a buried path of repetition 

Repetition repetition repetition