I sing
Like tortoises
Sprint
Like this country
Remembers
How it got here
Read as: I don’t sing
But loving you
Makes me wish
That I did. That I could
That this voice I was given
Was good
For more than wordplay
And these moonlit
Monologues
I want to talk
Vocabulary
Of beating hearts. All
Subterranean rhythms
And pulse
But
I’ve been building walls
For quite some time now
Too tall
For me to find my way
Out of
It wasn’t until
They were keeping me
From myself
That I realized
The walls we build
To protect ourselves
Become the same walls
We find ourselves caged within
Trapped behind
Waiting to find
Whoever it is
With whatever it takes
To break through
I want to sing
Scream
Language of storm
Swelling cloudscapes
Pregnant
With promises
Of Old World
Flood
The kind that gave birth
To first myths
Stitching antiquity
Together
Across continents
And creeds
I want to sing
Intangibles
Meaning
Deeper than English
Can approximate
The same eaglewing
Drumbeats quaking
Bloodstreams rapid
That
Racetrack rhythm
Shaving years
Off my life
Every time
Voice Breath
And Body
Find ways passed
These walls
The ones I've spent
18 years building
Until only a small
Trickled bloom
Of light
Leaking down
Was all
That ever got in
Each brick forged
From every tear I swallowed
Held back
Every memory
Of nopales
Dotting dreamscapes
Every little voice
Inside begging
I acknowledge
Numb hearts
And strength
Are not synonymous
I wish I could sing
No lyrics
Just throat swell
And spirit crying
Entrance into world
Feelings beyond
Definitions
Constructs
I wish my feelings
Found form
That was more Frank Ocean
Falsetto
And less Frank O’Hara
Letters
But
Words are all
I've ever been good at
I hate them
They always fall short.
4 Comments
I used to be radical Fire. (I know.)
That be it sugar or aspartame my taste buds will kill me. That flouride in water really is a concern (and other tin foil hatted shit like that). That my neurosis and insomnia will kill my cock by my forties. That I'll live to see the ruin we've wrought. That I really am my father's son. That the mind is a fragile thing. That if one happened upon the wrong thought one's sanity could unravel, like a ball of yarn becoming naught when the right thread is pulled. That my empathy is not endless. That every heartbreak detracts from the next. That my heart isn't big enough to lend to all who deserve it, and that my choices in this regard are poor and misguided. That my smiles aren't free. Beyond fear, I know this to be fact. They cost me a lot. That my life's work, my masterpiece, my magnum opus will remain unformed, still folded in the fabrics of my brainscape, trapped, waiting to be carved free, a formless rock that should have been more. That I'll never forgive the child that became me. In summary, I'm scurred, of a lot, despite my best efforts to pretend otherwise. Thanks for listening. (And if anyone asks, I'm brave as shit.) |
AuthorRhymer of words. Speaker of sounds. Ancestral conduit. And cool as shit. Archives
March 2015
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