This is my closed feeling
And I want to race
I want to hurry and blur
Each time I hear the call
With an exclamation point
That rumors of peace.
But not a grace peace,
A peace made of flowers
And ocean air hitting hot sand
Where I’m closing my eyes
To all but my closed feelings.
Tag: point
Edges (day 2851)
It’s not enough to hear your name
– Flicker of hope in my eyes –
I want to consume your name
So each letter feels my tongue
Amidst a mouthful of visions.
I want to hold you to my pressure points
So the forging of our steel
Will create the finest edge
Any blacksmith has ever hammered.
And when my silence is dearly broken,
I want it to be your vision
That subtly slices open my vein
So that I have no separation
Between what you are and I can be,
Where long roads converge
And my stone hones your edge.
Protest Poetry (day 975)
What was the arctic before it became an oil well?
What was a forest overrun with trees?
What was my name before I was a sibling?
What was my right before I’d been stamped?
Did I come straight from a hologram?
Was I brought home on a road?
Whence and where from did the light come?
And the warmth, did it come before gas, painted and housed within four block walls of a thousand pixels per inch?
Where did I walk to before a wood chipped trail led my way?
How did the day fill before the calendar?
Can a city be a city without city lights?
How did one tarry about a late night corner before floating electric drones showed I was withing safety?
Because dammit, I’m starting to wonder
Is there any point in the quest?
What is the point in stuffing our bellies?
Where did the idea of nik-naks come hither from?
How did function get replaced by aesthetics?
When did choice become demand?
When did want become a dire need?
Why did our brothers and sisters turn from extensions of ourselves to examples of our desires?
When did we lose all of our trust?
And where has my community resettled?
Where has my tree grown its roots?
Where is my moon?
This is a protest poem