i was a canvas
with all of my colors, i ask
what have you painted?

I sewed myself back together
Or so I thought.
I picked up every piece and threaded my needle
Sat and worked till the moon disappeared again.
And every day I sailed
Every shore I kissed
Tore my delicate lines
Here I find myself once again
Tattered and wheezing
I'll have to buy new thread then.
I can't salvage all the pieces this time either
Some of them don't fit anymore.
I guess I'll have to find new ones.

Oh that?
That's been there.
It's old.
Forgotten.
Like those boxes in the back of my closet.
My body burns when you touch them.
Scorching and staining my flesh
I feel
Defective.

They made me worry about quicksand a lot as a kid.
Giving me little bits of advice to keep in mind:
Don't move too much you'll go down faster!
If you're stuck just hold onto something!
As if it really was an all too common problem in the stale suburbs.
But I realize now quicksand isn't just one thing. It has many different names.
Don't let it swallow you up!
Just ask for help!
How do I do that?
I tried to hang on and not let it consume me,
But here I am, drowning in quicksand.

I wonder quite often
If it's like feeling sunshine on your arms and legs
After being slowly frozen
While being taught white history
If it's like putting on traditional clothes
And strutting proudly around town
If it's like cool water
Tickling your scalp
After this week's hottest day of the century
Is it the feeling you get when you've finally got new tires
And 65 down the toll road late at night
Feels just as smooth as the bass rumbling in your spine
Is it the same as letting go of someone
Who didn't understand
You needed a much bigger ***
So you could really bloom into the flower you knew you were
Perhaps one day I'll know
Till then, I have to be home by 9.