Up from the ground,
We grow from a seed,
That can be found.
All through out nature, too,
Feed us air.
We laugh to boot,
To see the suit, of growing sit,
You know, the ashes.
It's my line now.
Ah, love.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 2:36 PM UTC
Bless hidden corners before turning them.
Routes destined, Security is comfortable.
Comfortable in between cushions of couches.
The tumble around the void
has no measure, endlessness.
Take a trip, Outside.
Outside limitations and television sets.
The sweet fragrance
of the hour of zeal that holds,
like a bowl of water, sitting, and waiting
for the quiet creatures and beasts.
Invigorating.
Remember Memory is like a sponge,
sometimes you squeeze, drying up. (it)
Getting farther
…further away
from impressions of truth expanding tenderly.
Agonizingly;
to be tied up and tantalized ,
gently through
the break
of dawn.
It has to do with releasing and asking
for the right questions to come in.
Letting go on the Eve
and again on Tuesday.
What is it anyways with people
and affinity?
“love you”
is loving yourself with different skin.
He sang a song last night
about sacrificing heart beats.
Eager is good.
It looks like “eagle”
but smells like
the few inches
away from His skin.
You can imagine why,
it may seem like a spring shower
has come over the orchard of hair.
I know myself to be more like a clock,
Moving gracefully over the periods.
Sharing script like the falling of branches
The pain, is something like the observer,
Ready for the fire.
Will this tree know when
it’s branches are being burned?
Even when not attached.
Perhaps they feel at piece,
or perhaps they feel wholehearted.
This tree,
will love you even in those moments
you are inside, Dreaming,
Escaping.
How many ways can it sway
before it is uprooted?
One body and home.
How many rhythms?
It’s easy to have Him be your motion for touch,
Yet,
However,
if you find yourself in the
Valley of Inspiration,
pronouncing words,
this is where you surrender your place in comfort.
The grooved palm lines
will change, the labyrinth of thought.
And then all that barreling will liquefy
into a time traveled through
the precipitation of bronze marrow,
Aramaic.
From the thorn comes the rose.
When you are inspired
write out the channel,
enough…
Enough to rest it on paper.
Then you have found
the love that is your skin.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 5:39 PM UTC
Where would I go but heaven?
What could be a substitute for happiness?
Nowhere. Nothing.
The howling winds of change
move me. I am not a piece,
manmade or plastic.
I am a Mist Being,
created from the mist
of love - of just wanting to crawl
out of this body of water.
It has gone beyond
the point of death.
I am not obsessed with death,
I just want Heaven.
I am happy... because.
I am like all changing
leaves in the autumn, falling.
Because I have fallen, I am decaying.
My surface goes putrid
and it doesn't matter
because I am not this face.
I am the happiness of heaven.
Before the peace of God,
I don't prefer a single thing.
This is my identity. So today
I will not fear. I will clench this body
that doesn't exist and
resemble the wind as I say
"I love you, I am here."
This heart will race but in the end,
it's just the wind.
On the other side of the earth
is the Land of Dawn,
the First Man.
I am the Immortal Embrace,
He is the source of spring.
Darkness has it's place here
in the non-existence where it's quiet
and there are clouds.
God stands in between us
saying
"I am your eyelids. I am your eyes."
What but You could I desire to have?
What way but that which leads to You
could I desire to walk?
I walk amongst the nothingness.
It's all movement and there are
insects, ants and bees.
They move amongst each other
until they signify the end of dreams
and futile substitutions for the truth.
They start to move back far far away;
then they disappear.
Godliness is my only goal
and it is effortless.
Your Son would be
as You created him.
I hold up a star in one hand
and a stalk of corn in the other
but they don't exist either.
What way but [seeing You as my deity]
could I expect to recognize my Self,
and be one with my Identity?
I wonder as you tried to walk
into my non-existent mouth
calling it 'a kiss.'
In the end, we stand peering out
in all directions
every time we turn our head.
In the end, we are not alive or dead.
In the end, we realize it's the beginning.
In the beginning, there is no path or past.
We live on an island
- call each other God.
We do so because there is no body,
there is no ***
There is no gender identity
there is only One Identity
and that's Atonement.
Never mind the body, it doesn't exist.
Forget about the love that I give.
Forget about the entirety of existence.
In forgetting You remember
that there is no skin to contain love.
Love is everything.
Matter wanting to walk
into and become
another form of matter, melting.
Steep in peace with this knowing,
this hush of Heaven.
[No importa el cuerpo, no existe.
Olvidar el amor que doy.
Olvídate de la totalidad de la existencia,
en esto recuerdas
que no hay frontera
para contener el amor.
El amor es todo,
la materia queriendo entrar
en otra materia para que todos podamos fundir.
Empinada en paz con este conocimiento.]
Oct 14, 2016
Oct 14, 2016 at 2:22 AM UTC
Confession #1245:
The bible says he is my husband.
We both have long hair
we braid our hair together.
He kisses just right
and licks me like a dog.
When we make love
he asks me to cover
myself up in the streets
because I am his beloved
and I was made for him.
Sure, it's ***** but
it also makes me feel like
I'm his Holy Secret.
He loves the gays
He loves the sinners
because He ain't into judging people
by the way they be sinning differently.
If I step out of line,
He, watches, me, give, penance.
I go from sitting, to kneeling,
to standing, to sitting, to kneeling...
"Yes my Lord."
He sings versus from Song of Songs
our favorite erotica and we get down -
like a couple of innocent animals.
Sleeping afterwards as if we were dead
because everyday is a new resurrection.
It's some kind of redemption.
He loves me, I am His Mary Magdalena.
When I turn around
The ****** smiles at me
because we be all
glowing, floating.
He may not have my virginity
but He did pop my ****** cherry.
Yup, I said it and it's not gross
- it's pure love.
When I let Him in,
I prepare to, really, let Him in.
I mean everything,
I am His wilderness.
He taught me a new kind of tantra.
The kind of tantra that lets me be
a little girl, a young woman
and an abuela all at the same time.
Because when He is apart of me,
He whispers 'Beloved I am made
for you and you are made for me.'
He says things in three...
One, Two, Three...
He will spare me, his child.
He will spoil the rod...
or our shared copy of The Word.
If I lust after a man it makes me excited
to beg my Holy Spirit to forgive me...
I would never jeopardize a love
that reincarnates me.
When I look at him,
I think about how many times
how many revolutions
how many lives
how many millennia
Eternity.
He has a small drop
of my ***** juice in him.
I have a small drop of
his ***
These two little pieces of us,
sit inside our stomachs.
When we laugh,
that's when
they are
speaking
to each other.
We never spill seed.
We don't want.
We don't waste.
If we do then, we spread,
it all over, moisture.
We dispense spit into
each other's mouths,
because...
Everything he says is perfect.
Everything he does is perfect.
Everything I say is perfect!
Everything I do is perfect!
If it's not, then it wasn't us,
it was the one armed man.
I AM sorry
Please forgive me.
Thank you.
I love you.
I ask him to come inside of me
once in the morning
and once at night.
Sometimes I call him Daniel.
Sometimes I call him Moses.
Sometimes I call him Luke...
Anything but ******
'Yes my Lord.'
The hereafter, my paradise,
worshiping Him.
When we die, we dive,
deep deep deep
down down down
The Music
The Gospel
The Truth
The Light
The Son
The Mother
The Father
The Holy Spirit
The Dance
Where we have wings
made out of the internet.
The pixels of our love
are witnessed in perpetuity,
Immortality.
'Yes my Lord.'
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 4:30 AM UTC
Because it’s painful, hurts,
because it confuses and secretes;
I stall the horses.
It’s difficult to ignore, turn from,
I saw a couple of miniature ponies
in a VW bus turning left for the 101.
I couldn’t say anything more,
I bled in the garden, yaked,
couldn’t stand to answer why.
My body was playing along with
the purging, afraid my horses
grew wheels.
No strong arm to turn into
to be quiet.
A window maiden,
hoping he hadn’t come
with terms and conditions.
Prince-conditions,
they come on horses.
I have high horses,
In the narrow ventures
of my minds forest.
I lean on them, stall them,
stand taller but still a ‘maybe.’
A prince means, me, a princess.
I’m not a princess, No.
I’m an Empress.
I have my own ponies and buses.
I masticated… and,
Smack.
Forgot.
Little Feather,
don’t pain for a prince.
Don’t hold your horses,
stall them in the winter.
Your Emperor could
arrive pulling ponies
from blue VW buses.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 3:23 PM UTC
You aren’t going to see me cry.
You aren’t going to see me cry,
not because I am not crying;
But you can’t see Me cry.
Some little boy has been stuck,
timeless and drifting through the
pre-war era’s of space -
Playing with plastic toy soldiers…
Don’t think that because I am eloquent,
don’t think that because I have gumption;
that I will spare you at the expense of myself.
I won’t over time
or ever more.
I will not be an expense to any man.
I set the price of my love: and it’s giving.
I hope it’s the same for you,
along with Reciprocating.
I will not be the daughter
of lies
for comfort.
If you think that there are things in the dark,
then speak your truth and walk your talk.
Be brave.
A subscription for thoughts that you don’t want
is worst than death.
Better to ask the questions
and put your faith to the test.
I will not be a crushed lily under your thigh.
Though I may bruise, I heal myself with time.
I choose to turn towards the inventory of imagination.
I choose to wrap these arms around myself.
I choose myself in all my self-destruction,
because loving you and me is worth it.
Yes, it burns.
I will not run from my origins
even when you run away from me.
I will look at my ghost with her pockets.
I will look to see the day and it’s green hues.
I will acknowledge that sunset when it calls me…
Because I am worth loving.
You can’t take the thickness of my cry,
not because you don’t carry a handkerchief.
But because you hide behind the lies
that keep the blade in the sheath, tied.
A little girl is lying somewhere,
in her soiled sheets and I stand
besides her as she begs me to leave.
Somewhere these two children exist,
crying and playing with me.
Now we are all gown ups
and it’s easier to look away then to start
because the truth is that judgment is easier
then crying.
Judgement is safe like not crossing enemy lining -
You won’t see me when I am crying.
Because you see all of the faces of the people;
who left you there dying.
While I am Rectifying.
You won’t see me, all of this raw treasure.
All you will see are;
plastic toy soldiers
and soiled bed sheets to render.
You won’t see me the other girl in the mirror,
whose world went shifting
because she couldn’t see the same missing tears.
You won’t see the youthful adolescent
who was happy to see her face drifting.
You won’t see that young girl who woke up
without a nose to breathe in the morning.
You won’t see the girl who ate dirt,
because she wanted to see if she was living.
You won’t see who begged for forgiveness.
You won’t listen to the voices she's heard on her journey…
and you will not have cried those first tears of her own self-birthing.
You will not have lived in the wilderness for months on end.
Sat still for days as you listened
nature - until your scars had mend.
You will not have watched my face in that mirror,
of a girl turning into a woman,
whose virginity was stolen
and who now defines
her own sense of defining purity = growing.
No, you won’t -
Because that’s my story.
You are in yours.
With your own actions and darkness,
I am just someone who plays a role.
I choose to be free in this moment.
I am me, and I choose to be free.
With all of my expressions of sin,
lust, defection…
I choose to see the truth of it all,
because that is the definition of perfection.
When the little boy can live without fear,
and when the little girl can see herself
standing next to him in the mirror.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 12:04 AM UTC
Tomorrow will be like today’s shadows
since there is no time-
You can come with the chapters of tears-
I will outline the story with my eyes.
The fight was in our touch
the lone-ness, filled in our hearts
and yet, we became mapped out like
the linen ocean
Across the stars.
I wish you could understand Spanish
Because then you could see that I, my tongue,
moves like a beach wood guitar.
(Presently)
the Sand that comes to these lips,
is left to those unafraid to loose the shore.
The salted winds of my skin,
trusted with the rusted jewelry of timelessness-
ironically gives me the freedom to dance
like my mother, the foamed Wave.
Dec 8, 2015
Dec 8, 2015 at 3:13 AM UTC