For those feeling full of themselves,
start a garden: strip away the vines snaking
through every nook and crevice, pull weeds,
thistle and thorn; spend hours keeping the grass
out of the garden, and the garden out of lawn;
plant bulbs, fertilize, water, add manure and
loam and mulch; arrange stones and slates;
station a statue in the shade of a shrub,
perhaps a stone frog, or a gnome.
Then sit back and enjoy the spectacle
of your labor, suckle your pride, secretly
savor the envy of neighbors, have a drink,
and go to sleep, take a trip to the beach.
Then return and find the tiny blades
of grass severing into the sunshine like
mischievous reminders of how deep and wide
go their roots, how little you know of what lies
beneath surfaces; the vine that tripled in size
and now snakes around the lilacs; the thistle,
like sandpaper, thorning through six inches
of mulch, laughing; brambles tearing through
gloves with piranha ferocity; and some fiend
has toppled your gnome, and the only culprit
appears to be a colony of mushrooms
tilting innocently in the gloom.
Come back in a year, and you will find
that nature has gone on quite nicely without you,
as if you had never taken a single spade stroke
to the earth, as if you never existed.
When you make the perennial error
of thinking the world revolves around you,
the world has a way of very quickly
deploying its reminders.
For my heart only loved
few people, some had gone,
some returned and some were never.
So I asked this heart
of what it'll do if a stranger
come and crash the borders
I protected myself through?
I wonder how many times
it'll experience crying
and ripping out the feathers
of a comfortable pillow?
Will it beg for its lover
to stay until the very end?
Will it beg for another heart's
mercilessly painful love,
if that's what it calls it?
Or will it be brave enough
to let go and
let the wind find its another
May 9th, 2021
Sometimes I think the words I write are portrayed as something wrong, like I’m punished for just words written down. That what I put to paper, is translated in my mind and programmed to my subconscious as something to haunt, reflect back and always to be taken as literal. But wishing for it be falsified information, because I’m just speaking my mind. Thoughts aren’t always real, neither are words written down. Simply, they’re just mesmerizing lines that take form and tell a story to be untold because life becomes too much of what doesn’t have to be reeled, or made real, but more so a way to let go of an ideal that doesn’t actually have to make sense or flow with what I’m trying to think, but can be portrayed through pen and ink, just fluttering. Like eyelashes that blink as I tell myself I’m not here to sink. Because pain does sting, and it tortures with each letter I bring because I look back, look down and dissect without knowing, or wanting, or making sense of any of it, because it's the way my mind is wired. Words and images become visualizations and I know them, I can see them vividly, but I don’t mean the words that always come to mind or the sentences said because I’m human, and humanity has laid out a rule of thumb. Sometimes, thoughts are meant to float on, pass by and disappear so I write; until the harshness of the world plays and I’m dumbfound, struck in a forbidden place where my heart stains with red from the blood that drains seeping the pages in ink without words, with a mind that wishes to sing, and for ears to stop their haunting ring.
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