There are no thunderstorms in California

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There are no thunderstorms in California.

Oh, how I adore the smell of the wet warm earth after a storm. How I would wait to hear thunderous crackle, to see the sparks forged from the sky. But nothing.

There are no thunderstorms in California.

Sometimes, I close my eyes and imagine your sound. I imagine the raindrops that would gently kiss my skin, opening my pores in the most delightful way. I would jump, puddle to puddle racing through the tall grass. Just me and the elements. Once the lightning struck, I would then run into a small stone home. Where it would be warm inside from the fireplace, just in the living room. What a perfect mixture of smoked wood and petrichor. If you open all the windows, you could get a view of the long stretch of land, never ending. Silently, I would watch as the Heavens struck Earth.

There are no thunderstorms in California, but when I close my eyes anything is possible.

The creator

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There’s nothing I want more than to be closer to my creator. For you have shaped my skin and bone. Made every beauty mark and scar. You stretched out the subtle space between my two front teeth. You made my hair so wild, it even defies gravity, and my skin the very shade of the earth, that we walk upon.

All this, so that I would remember to love myself, never settling for less than I deserve. You made sure to send people into my life who would help teach me, patience. Molded me with kindness and fire, so that I could push through adversity. You made a rough draft of my life, crumbled it up into a ball and said, I’ll let her decide. Whether she will or will not follow all my signs.

Love me either way, but constantly remind me that really, truth and raw beauty lies inside.

Le but de l’âme

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I could easily be that woman.

The agreeable one, the one who smiles and laughs…even when I find remarks less than humorous.

I could get married and have children

Cook and clean.

Look nice and delicate.

Be nice and delicate.

Capture my beauty through photographs,

I take of myself.

Be in the moment, live for now.

Love in seasons.

I could be that woman and many would love her.

You see, there is nothing wrong with a woman like this.

If anything, I would prefer to be her.

But she is not me, no matter how earnest the attempt.

I am a thought, always evolving.

Never satisfied…

How could someone love a woman like this?

One who rarely smiles,

One who rarely understands herself, but is in constant search for more,

More of what she, herself does not know.

Strange, how there are so many books, testimonies and scriptures explaining what it is that wise men seek…

Even the Bible states that a man of wisdom seeks knowledge.

But what of my longing, what of my questions?

The abundance of my happiness must stem from what?

Marriage, love, fertility, material belongings? All beautiful things. All fleeting, fleeting as am I in this moment. Fleeting like the short span that is a lifetime, but never like my words.

The soul’s purpose.

Barefoot Angel

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Barefoot angel

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

Pottery

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Rough hands

Your veins so close to the surface, that is your skin

Covered

Wet clay, splattered all over your black apron and white T-shirt, carefully placed on your hands face

Earthly, Heavenly

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

Heritage

Mocha complexioned girl, with intuition beyond her years.

Struggles rooted in the ancestry of her blood.

The rhythm of song and dance living in the marrow of her bones.

Far before she knew how to walk.

Words formed in her mind, before she could talk.

She was alive in more ways than one.

Chakra, the earth’s spirit flowing like water lilies down the curve of her sultry body, line.

Intertwined like vines on aged structures. Demolished. Broken. Bind.

The fight that Mother Nature won.

Recreated and reborn every morning slightly after dawn. A miracle and a blessing it is.

That she dwells in her and her light is now mine and we are one, one divine human being.