Piss and Vinegar
Wandering desert winds conjure
wondering dessert wins;
elves that ride ponies,
rhythm spaced for miles,
and a gallon left to drink.
Heart away from home inside my head,
stumbling through serendipity to find
a sprite of sunshine's spray
springing, sweet Tigger come to life;
paths now merged,
tears have dried from my eyes.
There is opportunity here,
lushness unexpected in the dry
spiteful winds of this empty plane.
Welcome mats aren't needed
when such sparkles shine in gazes,
diamond smiles and open arms
wrapping my heart so tightly
it'd be impossible to feel anything else.
There is something I can't quite
put my finger on within the swelling laughter
that she always seems to unravel
in the spaces between the words.
Absurdities arching my spine,
as my revelry seems so poignantly
reflected in her absolute ease
inside the chaos of a passionate life.
Orange haired gypsy,
made of funk,
piss and vinegar;
How does one follow
the path of fire's flame?
Onward, ever forward,
outside reason
and in between
the constants of
straining senses;
deep into the mix
of hot sauce,
whiskey,
and relief
that this glorious goddess
has shown enough mercy
to shelter this moonlit beggar
from the cold,
until the fire is again
stoked within his open gaze.
Wounded healer,
what madness must be endured
in these chosen tribal trials?
Back to the trees,
the wonderment of defaultia
again embracing our perceptions;
what new paths we are to travel,
i gratefully traverse
with a yawp of my own,
and with thanks I rejoice.
insight
there is a great debt left to be payed in my life:
a calling that i must no longer create art and expressions for others. they must be for me. for my tastes, my sensibilities... too often i have missed great opportunities for the sake of feeling a lack of social validation.
i cannot write good music or craft beautiful works for her, for them, for you. i can, however, create meaningful expressions when they are meant to better allow my light to shine.
this is something i must ponder further, of course. i do not seek the path of the hermit, of the introvert, of the man with no ties to community or the cares and needs of others... i do know, though, that it has not been working so far, and a conscious effort is needed to reclaim my potential and bathe my world with the most righteous lights that I have within my capacity.
love is in my heart, and fear will not be held any longer against a bosom of shame.
a calling that i must no longer create art and expressions for others. they must be for me. for my tastes, my sensibilities... too often i have missed great opportunities for the sake of feeling a lack of social validation.
i cannot write good music or craft beautiful works for her, for them, for you. i can, however, create meaningful expressions when they are meant to better allow my light to shine.
this is something i must ponder further, of course. i do not seek the path of the hermit, of the introvert, of the man with no ties to community or the cares and needs of others... i do know, though, that it has not been working so far, and a conscious effort is needed to reclaim my potential and bathe my world with the most righteous lights that I have within my capacity.
love is in my heart, and fear will not be held any longer against a bosom of shame.
we may be behind and ahead
FIRE FIRE PHOENIX FIRE FIRE
love in no short supply, i reach into my own infinity and realize it wont be coming back with me. i am finite and yet my grasp encompasses the very duality between existing and the cessation of this consciousness.
BURNING SOUL AND PASSIONS RELEASE
incarnations of glory find their grotesque channel through my fight and this body of work i am burdened to create. my sensual fury will penetrate your being, i will take you and we will remember what it was to be as one.
LAUGHTER PUSHES OUT OF MY SWOLLEN WOMB
boundaries be damned, touch me where its fuzz for miles. god lives and dies all around, and the flames lick my skin away. i am your infant son, i am the ballerina spinning lies into well-woven basket holding hands.
love in no short supply, i reach into my own infinity and realize it wont be coming back with me. i am finite and yet my grasp encompasses the very duality between existing and the cessation of this consciousness.
BURNING SOUL AND PASSIONS RELEASE
incarnations of glory find their grotesque channel through my fight and this body of work i am burdened to create. my sensual fury will penetrate your being, i will take you and we will remember what it was to be as one.
LAUGHTER PUSHES OUT OF MY SWOLLEN WOMB
boundaries be damned, touch me where its fuzz for miles. god lives and dies all around, and the flames lick my skin away. i am your infant son, i am the ballerina spinning lies into well-woven basket holding hands.
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