Thursday, March 9, 2017


it used to be I minded being born
on to undressed walls
only when I was in white love
in womb-warmed darkness
comforted by the pleasures of illusion
the rich blindness of soft soil, where one
can grow straight down
to the cusp of moisture
held simple on lips
no skin untouched

in deep, a long stretch of
sea legs would carry wind to
bluster and billow out the dreams
seed pods lying on top of dew
or floating in the sun
they blister and heal

it used to be a river
which had my entire devotion
was hung on a clothesline
where it dried and cracked

I heard you say I was strong
when you broke me

am I? is broken strong
or moved like other rivers;
seeded like other births?


  1. Cry not for what was
    Rather live for what is and what can be.

    I was broken, left for another
    A stop on the way to elsewhere
    As seems so often happens
    The mainsail twisting in the wind,
    And no hand on the tiller.

    "Why?" I cried to the heavens,
    Yet crying availed me not.
    Then the voice - "Live. Love. Laugh."
    Your future is clay
    Mold your own

    1. I must be your muse, A. Hope you're doing well. Are you a stalker? Smiles, me.


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