Binding,
blank minded,
going into the abyss
of anxious people, places, faces.
Crowds of silence,
crowds of sound.
Bound
by media
commedia
and talent.
Turn ash into cement,
and concrete peace
into The Building Blocks
of the desire
to be closer to nature.
How to be free from scrutiny?
You can’t.
You can’t.
You can’t.
I am an insignificant
grain of sand
on a warm sunny beach.
Or so, I wish I was-
what I really am
is an admission
of imperfection.
Loud and unwilling to be treated unfairly.
Tired of being told to be sad
when I’m happy,
tired of saying goodbye to happiness
in order to fit in a crowd I don’t belong.
I’m spent again,
devastated,
deep breaths,
mindful meditated
into nowhere good.
I’ve got this feeling
I’ll be healing
more than just myself-
you can’t heal other people.
You Can’t.
You can’t.
You can’t.
Where are my words?
Painting you a hue
Under Aurora’s Umbrella
of chameleon rain.
Crushed velvet,
crushed dreams
create movement among
the lifeless sympathies
sold by soulless
companies.
Take a second to see what I see,
suffering,
or celebration,
even anticipation.
Step inside the mind
of the soulful kind,
the human experience
of artful deliverance.
You Can’t Understand me,
my words, my culture, my faith,
my existence in this world
that refuses to accept me
as a light of positivity.
You’d rather I sit in the dark
as a lonely sad spark
that burns this city down in
dismay and destruction.
How do I please you?
How can I please you?
I am out with the old, in with the new.
Demolition, not reconstruction,
new construction.
I am practice,
I am in practice.
A falling tower of kind words
pushing through,
“How do you do?”
A belief so strong that I do not belong,
but I keep leaving behind
strands of a shattered self.
A shred of self endearment said to me,
“This is not your crowd,
this is not your place,
this is not your fight,
so please turn away with grace.”