No one told you, that you were meant for more
The world feeds you propaganda, tells you your destiny cannot extend beyond these four walls
No one showed you how to use your wings, how to soar
They ridiculed you for not having lavish material cover the soles of your feet.
But you know what they don’t and you see because they won’t
You, birthed on this earth among them
You don’t have to prove your worth
And you know they wouldn’t have to cover their feet, if they didn’t pollute the earth. You are fully aware that they’ve given you tools to make you numb. But you were born benevolent and you will teach them all to love
Once upon a time, there lived a star. She was obsessed with the idea of love, so she would watched as all the other stars shot across the galaxy to meet one another in unity… But because she was too fearful to give her heart away, too afraid to join all the other shooting stars, she waited and waited, until she grew older. So much older, that all she began to attract were cold, small, lifeless rocks. She unknowingly began to warm all the rocks nearby with all the things she imagined love to be like. These rocks would soon form an orbit, all rotating around her light. But her poor heart, she kept it in a jar protected by a ring of fire. Far from harm, but also so far away from love. And this is the story of the sun and how our planets were formed.
The rain continued to bounce off the glass window beside our bed. It’s been a whole week of nonstop rain. Last night, you said that we should stay inside all day and I suggested that we build a fort, made of all our sheets, blankets and pillows and you agreed. The next morning, it was still raining. I opened my glass window slightly, only to better hear the rain. What a gentle, but violent drum it had, and suddenly the aroma of pine trees had entered our bedroom. You tossed and turned, finally sitting up in the bed. “Morning.” You yawned. “Hey.” I replied looking back at you . Scratching your bedhead, you got up out of the bed to use the bathroom. The more I start to think about it, the more I realized that you were never really the sentimental type, but that was okay with me. You spoke clear and plainly, always straight to the point. You were never great at reading my mind or buying me gifts. So whenever, I was feeling some type of raging emotion, I had to explain it to you, otherwise you would be clueless. Which made being mad at you completely impossible. At times you were bit too practical for my liking, but no one’s perfect. I, on the other hand have always been the temperamental type. Overthinking, over-analyzing, always wanting to know what was on your mind. Sensitive, but ever so passionate. An explosive combustion. “Hey you, can you come back down to Earth now?” you whispered kissing my coiled hair. “Yeah, I was just thinking, you know sometimes this… feels like a dream. ” I mumbled looking up at you. You pulled me back into bed, trying your utmost to convince me that this was surely no dream, then we fell asleep with our hands and legs intertwined.
When I woke, I was laying in a twin sized bed, somewhere in California… alone. It really was a dream, I thought. When I went to look outside, it was raining. I slowly cracked my bedroom window, and there it was. The gentle, violent drum of the rain striking the Earth and the smell of pine.
Your veins so close to the surface, that is your skin
Wet clay, splattered all over your black apron and white T-shirt, carefully placed on your hands face
I watch your hands, as you select your clay
High fire, low fire
Your hands form the mold
Your mind feeds my curiosity
You see, it wasn’t your face I fell for, nor your words
It was your hands and your ability to take nothing and create something, that could make me feel
Feel every emotion, that ever existed
All at once
The walls of all the ancient kingdoms have now fallen from grace. Our ancestors thought themselves as God and built structures and carved stone, painted sensations and wrote history in the most poetic form.
How do you follow greatness?
How do you overcome the fear of your own failure?
Do we resist it, do we remain stagnant, so that we may never fail?
Do we push through?
Persist even if the end isn’t ideal? Try, even when our outcome is defeat?
I will not attempt to be great like my ancestors, imitate any one form of art. Instead I aim to capture my rawness in its entirety and take that fire, that electricity and hone it. Then when the time is right, (if there ever was such a thing) I will spew fire with every breath I take. My fire will find its way on to paper, and that is where my legacy lies.
All that is left when I am reduced to blood and bone. The sweet soil of the earth.
All that will be left is dragon’s breath.
If I could be anything, I think I would be a siren.
Without all the horror.
My sweet sensual song, would lead you straight to me.
Away from all the frustration, death and wreckage at sea.
I would call you to the large mass of stone, just slightly above the water.
Where I would then, taste your lips and drag you down under.
All the real poets are dead,
All the real lovers have passed
Now what do we have left?
Nothing, but cold emotionless beings
Pretending to feel something, so they too can feel real.
Imitators, at best, trying so desperately to grasp hold of something we
Could never possess.