Spring is a coil when juices boil,
vines that spiral, a lust as viral.
It's the time when I was born,
after a salty summer dawn
when two tired ants stayed home.
Spring is the dawn of a hundred days,
an iris spilt a billion ways.
It's the water in the soil
heavy enough to float on oil.
It's the scent of trembling dirt,
the aroma of clean skirt.
It's the time to be and grow,
something every seed does know.
A little sunshine, a hint of snow.
It's a time to get your ***
and wash your sickle in the flow.
Iron rusts and so does blood
dust is really just dry mud.
I'm dying to see you.
- I'm dying, too. See you.
All I want is to
clean the air we breathe
while drinking from the mud.
I want to climb up to the sun. I want to
grow and grow and grow. I want to stand
against the wind. I want to shade those looking for
a rest, be their cradle and their nest. I want to give my
children to the hungry. I want to drown to hold the
dreamers. I want to burn and warm the workers.
I want to rot
grow and go.
I want not to want.
I want to be a tree.
There is no colour in your cell
and there's a reason for the smell.
There is no rain which you can taste.
Spit it out, or you get maced.
There is no walking on the grass
bend over, smile and kiss my ***.
There is is no living in a tree.
My books, my laws, no mystery.
You were not raised to be a bird,
you, are a member of the herd.
There is no wingspace in the sky.
You work, you ****, you die.
And you, you have no use for a guitar,
you are a peasant, not a Czar.
There is no colour in your cell.
It is supposed to rhyme with hell.
There is a reason for your cage.
There is a reason for your rage.
This little pup is black and white.
This little pup stays awake at night,
choking on the warmth of the midnigh light.
This little pup is gonna put up a fight.
She's a curious thing,
all angry and cute.
She's a strange little mutt,
whose howl seems mute.
Oh, she cries, but after the storm,
like when she dies, just before dawn.
She scares, but only if she cares.
This little pup is in a state,
which she naturally thinks is not so great.
This little pup is a little gray.
This little pup is gonna be ok.
i knew two warriors,
one who breathed
and one who didn't.
And then he didn't.
Maybe this is a poem
and maybe it isn't.
So much pain i cannot feel it.
So, i deal with it.
Put it in words and deal it.
Put it in drawers and seal it.
They tell me it's good to feel pain.
i tell them i'll cry with the rain
i'll save my tears for the seeds,
the weeds and the insane.