I'm the wounded swallow
With a needle in my arm and multiple doses of thoughts
I'm god of the world
That doesn't belong to me
Drowned in my bath
My own ocean
As deep as thoughts
As sweet as dreams
As dark as past
I still have that artist fingers
Which leaks the truth
The sharp knives that tears apart
I have demons behind my eyes
A stone in my chest
An aimed heart in my head, which I call brain
My candle still burns
By a different flame

I Took a shower with your scent
Now I have your smell with myslf
On the surface of my skin
Swaying gently in violet
I breathed you and you got me high,
As my ballon lungs were filling with your exhale,
And I was scaping from the gravity
Saying farewell to my own dear ground,
Bye bye my inertial self centered life
As you made me lighter than air

All my life I was breathing in the poison air of self-judgement.
The kind that sticks to heart and aura,
bringing heartache in my journey.

Within my intake breath,
judgment of being stupid lodged, causing others to agree.

Within my out take breath,
judgement of not being pretty lodged, as others agreed.

In childhood insecurities plagued, as many teased and touched.
In adolescence fears plagued, as others kept their distance.
In adulthood, I gave my power away, and others took it.

Until light came into self to awake inside heart.

Until heart showed  my true divine self.

Now I breathe in clean air celebrating
connected to source energy.

Now I love myself to feel free at last.

I want to wear a hole
To cover all over my soul
It can be a black hole
And can be stolen from the celestial store
I want to waer a hole
To put dressings on my scars
I want to wear a huge hole
To dispose me whole
And this holy hole maybe
plays your own role

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen