We are the quiet mutterings of the river that flows from underneath the feet of the Lord. Let us go. Let us cry into the grave of the brother we never kissed and the sister we never held. Who are you to take them away from me? Who are you to take away my sight? My hearing? My touch? My warmth? They are mine. All mine. My love. My faith. My joy. My strength. My hope. My dignity.
I will look at you and break the ego that broke my mother and my father. I will breathe harder, faster, louder - and the world will see fit to listen to our howl for we long for the moon
to forgive and remember the ones lost and forgotten
We are the quiet magnificence of the new turning.
He hated the fact that his hands were drawn to touching me. Touching my hair, my hands, the crook of my elbow to the curve of my hip. He hated every moment he spent touching me, because he could feel, literally feel the smoothness of my electric blanket drowning him in water and fire. Elements of warmth too hot, too scalding, too quenching for the darkness he was used to. Haggard were the features of his soul. It was burnt around the edges and bitten off somewhere in the middle. The bite marks were unmistakeable. Someone had ripped off a chunk of his essence and sold it to the devil with the flaming red hair and icy blue eyes. In that moment as I stared into the void of everlasting grief that flowed outwards from the spring of his birth, I understood. I accepted everything he had been, all the suffering he had caused to my naive, innocent heart, the agony he must have, unknowingly, been going through himself. Somewhere in my heart, somewhere in the depth of one layer reaching deeper into another, I had always known that through the mess and chaos, a pure love lay, waiting to be touched and caressed out of the ashes and into the light.
He took my hands in his and seared his eyes with the pain of a man who was all too familiar with the scars of goodbye. Forevers compromised by human existence. Where souls are contained in bodies and bodies must go, always go.
Look, it’s all a matter of timing. And guess what, I’ve realized the time is always ripe to do right. I’m young and I’m ready. I have the fire in me and if I don’t do something about it, it’s going to explode into something dangerous. Blast all of my potential to the wayside. Potential for happiness, for success, for love, for life. Because I’m not interested in living a normal life. I’m just not. I’m not interested in waiting for stability, going through standard procedure, to get what I deserve which is the opportunity to live hard and fierce.
So I’m going to do it. I’m going to do all that I hope, all that I dream, all that is within me. I’m going to unleash it and see what happens. The truth and wisdom in me tells me incredible things are waiting for me on the other side of the rainbow. Patiently waiting for the day I release the incomprehensible force steadily pulsating inside of me.
I’m sorry you don’t believe in me just yet. I’m sorry you didn’t follow your own dreams, so you don’t have faith in mine. This time, your efforts to hold me back are not going to work. It’s my life, my decisions, my choices. I’m on the pursuit and that’s my final word.
Madness gave me poetry.
Writing from an unrestrained place is sometimes a very difficult thing to do. I have expectations for myself and I’m not above dogma. And so most of the time I’ll write a couple of lines only to immediately cross them out in frustration. I can tell when it’s not pure. When I’m just throwing around words for word’s sake. What a waste of paper and ink that is. What a waste of a brilliant mind, a brilliant heart, a brilliant soul. We’ve all got it in us. Just need to fight it out.
There are enough smart people in my community
there are enough 4.0 GPAs in my community
there are enough doctors in my community
there are enough samples in my community
there are enough bees in my community
there are enough wax in my community
There is enough honey
there is enough sugar
there is even enough spice
There is much enough of everything
except what I am about to do next
for as long as I keep it pure
my actions pure
from the deepest stirring in my
whatever you want to call it
That is what my community
does not have enough of
even when the rope burn
cuts into your throat
and all you can feel
is the moment before
Frank’s music flows out of him even when there is no melody or beat or rhythm accompanying. Silence is adequate. No, it is more than that. Sometimes words are all you need, nothing more, to make sweet, sweet music. I guess that’s what people call poetry. Or prose. Or just damn good writing.
All in all, if it’s free, it’s music.
But there’s no doubt about it, it has got to be free. Flowing. Unrestrained.