Still Life.
This is my spirit.
This is the way I’m going to show,
All of these fields of flowers, to the water
Below.
This is what I hold in the midnight sky,
And these tears I shed I want to cry.
The words I pour from my pages,
And cry these tears,
And we’ve been gone for all these years.
My life is at a stand-still, and still you’ve gone,
All these messages I am alone.
I stand on the mountain and look into my grave,
I’ve been out of the picture for a long while it seems.
You thought you could mess with me, and turn
Me into what I am-
Now I’m cold and I’m broken and I can barely stand.
You think I’m a liar I saw you bleed on the page.
You don’t know anything about the forces of rage.
This is my spirit this is my war cry,
Like the wind and the rain and the shelters we deny.
My heart is on a page.
I am homeless and broken and I cry your name,
The sky is above us, and we are here to receive,
These tears are our sorrows and on the pages it bleeds.
Showing posts with label name. Show all posts
Showing posts with label name. Show all posts
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Unknown.
I left you, far away, dancing in a field in Georgia.
The corn fields are always growing. The women are always
large, especially their breasts, which heave in rhythm to the rushing
of rivers-
streams.
Thousands of streams rage across Georgia, hardly understood by man,
for they can save lives and take them. I am not one to understand. I hold
no objects in my heart; I do not cater to a man; my eyes are small and
brown and you yell at me from the other room, asking me when dinner is going
to be made.
Sometimes, I want to scream so loud they can hear me in South Carolina,
especially in Greenwood where the president heard his favorite story over
a cup of tea from a man with a brown hat and rotting teeth. In Africa, it is like
this, the woman in South Africa tired of being raised by her aunt,
tired of wondering where her mother is, her brother, her sister, tired of not
knowing her own name.
The corn fields are always growing. The women are always
large, especially their breasts, which heave in rhythm to the rushing
of rivers-
streams.
Thousands of streams rage across Georgia, hardly understood by man,
for they can save lives and take them. I am not one to understand. I hold
no objects in my heart; I do not cater to a man; my eyes are small and
brown and you yell at me from the other room, asking me when dinner is going
to be made.
Sometimes, I want to scream so loud they can hear me in South Carolina,
especially in Greenwood where the president heard his favorite story over
a cup of tea from a man with a brown hat and rotting teeth. In Africa, it is like
this, the woman in South Africa tired of being raised by her aunt,
tired of wondering where her mother is, her brother, her sister, tired of not
knowing her own name.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I AM NOW ON AMAZON.COM!!
My self-published book is now on amazon.com.
BUY IT NOW!!!
Look under my name.
I need to get crackin' on my fiction books, my scripts, and new songs *sigh.*
BUY IT NOW!!!
Look under my name.
I need to get crackin' on my fiction books, my scripts, and new songs *sigh.*
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)