Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

29.6.17
Time (self..)

you, been waiting this long, time is no enemy it is the cross alliance of self and patience, you may hear others and watch their presence become hero before your eyes do not get this confused with your super power, do not watch others and seek yourself, confuse it for worth, do not confuse yourself with worth you’re time, if you look around and see self as lost be very careful of its freedom their are some who do not have this kind of luxury, we are existence of our own time, do not fear what you have right now we are infinite strikes upon this fortune, catharsis that has been bent backwards sometimes, you will not see the value in pain but I promise you will find the lesson buried deep in the inconsistency of the heart, you will not mistake it for anything but precious tempos of time within self, you will see this heart a muse for the way it clings onto intangibles so tight is when you will learn to see the difference between heart and heart ache, so quick to always catch this body, this self-, watch the time, do not fumble its silence, it is a virtue of our own will in the form of duration

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Poem: Melody of Being Animate

21.6.17
keep me (beautiful weakness..)

I might care for you more than you’re willing, able to feed this body with the love I have drowned you into its own meaning, you’re the first and last thought I think about, and its frightening when I think you’re ever leaving, I reminisce so much of the way you speak, remembering words that have been beauty marked into my heart, this fear of loving is making me unable to show you too much of the ways in which I have missed so much of you, it’s tiring, loving when you’re afraid of the receivers response to this intense feeling, this kind of longing is no temporary sensation, the eyes have watched you long enough to miss the way you have been seen into this body, a beautiful weakness, I want to be an intense feeling bind your words to my heart, keep your body close to the mind so you’re unable to live without its warmth, love you the way flames feel when you get too close, I want to melt in your arms long enough to be called yours, you’re a beautiful weakness, and I love the way you form words that are as soft as the way you want to indulge me, keep me safe, I want to be all yours.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

19.6.17
life..(interlude..)

A welcomed conversation, how often do we get to sit this comfortable and witness the mind this open, do not forget about its illness it is a valuable asset to its existence, it is no disciplined definition, it is a diffident kind of love, we are still learning to exist with its interference’s, learning fearlessness from back bone, and fluid flowing into our stream, how often are we welcoming and welcomed of uncomfortable, do we accept its way of healing and slowly allow the word love to grace the mimic of our mouth, let the sun light in, you have been gone too long, been seen too often of room dimmed in candle lit long enough just to be called empty, you’re not empty, remember this heart, has been beating for every kind of love so many times there is no limit to selflessness, and the mind constantly having to be hero for the way this body beautifies, and how the body has learnt to hide behind broken so beautifully, we are only here to exist as we want, as we choose so careless to its boundaries, who needs constraints when you have found the absolute in living each day, when you’re hero each day-, thank you for reading this, I hope we can do this again sometime.

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

14.06.17 | love song (bind me to you..need)

“..what does the body do when it has found a way to solve heart beats, it doesn’t know how to catch this feeling and learn to let it go so easily, this feeling, has found a way to stay in this body, can’t call it uninvited, how do you do that, make it feel like you’re the only one who can make it feel like this body needs, you, when you control do you mean the way the mind has also fallen-, linger, no, stay here longer, I am slowly binding my words to match yours instead of losing them in your eyes I want to lose them somewhere along the same intensity of what you love, somewhere permanent, I want you to need this entirety.”

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

8.6.17 | 9.6.17. Dreaming Fable (you’re..)

I mime fables that have been seen of this salem, silent in the dark, that sit with the night sky and watch the stars fill its vacancy, a distilled memoir, that glimmers awakened dreams, it has never been about forgetting how to love, but it has always wished on the stars enough to make it real, to never forget that this kind of magic is crafted into all our bodies and we are left to spell it back once it has finished manifesting into our souls long enough to breathe its wild back to love, a spell bound feeling, that is the mirrored shooting star reality of our distilled dreams

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

7.6.17
Hurting.

What do you do when you can physically feel your body ashing its bones from the inside, you know this feeling too often always uninvited and doesn’t leave until it has made sure you have tried dying at least once, when you have this illness, that likes to eat your body from the deepest parts of its pain and you don’t understand where it found the courage to find it without letting you know first, this illness, likes to keep secrets and never tell this body how to fix its accidents, leaves the body feeling like it is ready to die from its own failure of not being able to locate its demise, how do you sit with something that is trying to kill you slowly, when you’re suffering on your own you are almost forced to witness a death right before your eyes without love knowing you were even there, without family knowing how much it hurts because this kind of pain doesn’t just come with broken bones crunched to dust taken by the empty in this shell of a beautiful body, its so much harder to breathe when you’re not sure if the air you’re breathing is worth living, I was 10 when I first wanted to take my own breath, not long after attempting to see what it would look like to show my mother what it feels like to bleed her words, I imagined flooding this room with all my pain to maybe understand how this body was feeling, to feel better, to stop the pain, I just wanted it all to stop, I didn’t understand why it was coming for me in this kind of cold and loving way, I was 20 when I realized that the words I wrote down were a ransom from this illness, this body is being held hostage, and the heart is barley fighting to stay alive, how to rescue yourself internally when you can’t even save yourself in your living reality, what kind of jaded mood stays for this long, I was 21 when I asked for help, wanted someone to come help me because I didn’t know how to do it first, I was so confused about how this illness attacks this body the way the word enemy comes to the tip of my tongue telling this body words that aren’t true, weakening the heart to confuse abuse for love, you are no hero when this illness comes to surface and claws at every single part of this good body, this bleeding heart, the ache, of numbing the body in a whole is to forget you’re even existing, that you’re alive, this illness likes to drag my body to its absolute and watch it scramble to get back up, and all the heart can do is tighten at the bodies attempt, scared this illness will come for it next, the souls are no where to be found, I am left to save this body alone, just me, who can save this body but me, I am the only one vacant every breath you’re not here when the body has whispered how many times it has given up, and how the heart weeps a flood of pain, you can’t feel this feeling to this intensity don’t sit there and tell me you understand help me, tell me you can help me, that its all going to be okay, that it doesn’t have to be like this, tell me I will get better, that I don’t have to live with this illness bruising this body enough to call them part of this body, I don’t want these wounds, you hear people talk about selflove and how they have not found it, people like me, have not found self love they talk about it like its so close, like its almost in their hands, where, help me find it, I need to find it, Im so scared that one day my body will have enough the heart will be silenced and mute to its own pain and this illness will convince the body to go to sleep forever, a solution, maybe, how do you fix yourself from the inside with an illness bearing teeth at each attempt you can not win this way, help me

Poetry: Melody of Being Animate

4.6.17
Black magic (hero.)

Cotton picked finger tips, skin kissed by the sun turning shades of this good earth, slavery is no forgotten sawn metamorphosis of its own history, how far have we come, even in these early future can black skin still feel lashes of words that sip poison down their bigotry with words that have been used by colonizers too vividly dose this black skin witness two souls when they gauge this kind of spoken evil, are we called too sensitive or too loud, can we not both exist and be hero in this skin, are we not allowed to praise what has been forbidden, do we become the punch lines, unapologetic has been, two too many times have I had to teach the learning’s of the word nigga, watch it leave foreign land, foreign voices do we adjust to its trend, which is to say do you mean the way black is still a casualty, when the world wants to wipe you out do you still abide to trend, must you become hero, god like powers must be mother earth, this tsunami of ancestry blood bitter sweet, to the pronunciation of the word nigga glocks out of their fingertips as I watch this mind decolonize friendship, the word nigga has only one heart brake, do not slay its vibe in the same mood as missing out on a new fad, these syllables have been engraved into so many oppressions you have no right to take it and miss use its pronunciation with that mouth concealed in split tongue  you can not have this blood, this good hair and this skin, we have been had, glock ready since we been watching hero from hero tear away at these chains and call it healing, these cotton picked tips, skin kissed by the sun turning shades of this good earth, we are not forgotten, you have not yet witnessed hero enough, watch it, we are roots that can not stop growing from our own pain, you have not learnt about this kind of unstoppable black magic, so watch it well, we’re not done bleeding ink to match our words