Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
acacia Oct 8
let me bask in your light,for you are higher than me right now, since we are from the same light, but today and all of my years before, you shine heavenly, you shine brightly
you beam this all encompassing cacophony of electric blue and sense-depriving white;
and i want to be this,
i pray to you for you are above me and you give me this light
i pray to you, my baby boy, for you are my guide and my love, please know I am your Mary
i pray to you because you are a close source of divine light, a close river of pure water, and i am experiencing the same divinity you encompass every time i meditate on you,
the same hydration you receive from the elixir of knowledge every time i meditate on you and the origins we share
every time i cry tears of overwhelming joy,
each time i join myself with the capacity of linearity and am on the edge of the coarse shores of Boundary and Limit, I can step my foot inside the ocean to feel the water, I will not grab or kick the water, I will immerse myself in the water,
I will be in the water

we are no buoys in the water; to not be the anchor and sink in the water, but do dissolve us farther from matter—now us, the drops, become indistinguishable from the sea
rough draft and a one take, didn’t edit really

just wrote... man really is closer to god when he faces the sea...
acacia Sep 20
He even said it in the History Textbook, and he quoted this line,

"I heard you didn't like Drugs like me, I wish you'd show me how much you hate me and get down on your knees,"

and he continued to shut his Bible, and turn off the lamp on his right-side.

I'm swimming away, I'll pour my water elsewhere. I'll talk to
the word in the title is ' O-p-i-u-m' but censored for some reason. guess cuz itsa drugggg
acacia Sep 20
I will force my curves into word-induced landscapes and hidden meditation with my pashmina hiding my head,

the direction this originates matters none, for it will result in healing the wound of duality, healing the wound of It All Inside Me—

if originates from riposte, conceit, or because of the rainy day, it matters none, the Truth will filter through—it will increase and decrease into the Swallow, like my chest underneath this pale nightgown—

this nightgown is sheer, acquiescent to my body secretly revealed under,

this nightgown is slightly glowing under moonlight peering in from the window, the afterglow travels from ethers of yore to greet me, bringing jewellike rocks from asteroids with them,

(the rocks are crushed into fine powders then drizzled over me to glint my form)

the moon seemed to give the same droplets the morning did,

and the cheeks on my bottom bedewed, modest moisture clinging this nightgown to my body
But I knew it couldn't last 'til Summer's end; now give me back all the clothes you borrowed.
acacia Sep 18
Make me drink the orange-growing vines inside a drop of water; I sit in this bubble and I see the world as they transcend through slaughter; you drink the rain and bring me more strange parodies;
waiting for your darkness in the call, waiting for your call in a Tuesday window slot;
the driver forced you to buy a new one, a grown one, a torn one; a little boy brightly needs to see me, a little bird brightly needs to feel me;
forge the holy waters by the saunas, the natural sauna to drill in the Sun to drive me into the harkings through your brain, your frontal lobe, your northernmost pole;
crashing into cities, foraging through the dark;
you can’t take away from me, I’m in the single most nearest computer screen: did you see her by the lamppost? In the window, walking in the window—she got hit with the wind, though;
the brown hedge waters, they’re seeking you; they seek the driest triumphant day to reform the nations, reform indications about the way you dress, send a PSA about how to look at your chest!
Can you see me lurking in the window? Can you feel my hand through your twins, though? HER: Where does the gale blow?
HIM: Do you mean where the wind blows?
HER: Oh, the gale goes where the wind blows?
And he thinks she’s stupid, so her drinks her like a syrup and drizzles her; life is mirrored.
My whole heart has been contaminated by the single-use lines of you; I’m just a cigarette, a cigarillo with a frequent contempt for matrimony, busted **** inside the head—make me with lace of yarn; take me, trace me into the most prettiest fabric in the sea, with hair falling down Mountain Holy; I drift into your yard, with the life outside focused on my hands and green tops with hearts into jars—not that song.
Your song, (yeah, you) your song, the one you wrote for me (with calamezzo!) Mazaretto, that’s my name. I remember. Yeah, you. I remember you. Why would you say that, huh? I ask between gritted teeth, and gasping breaths. You thought it was okay to say that, huh? My voice heightens and cracks as I whip into you; sweat drips down your sides, I want to rip your heart.
Don’t tell me, don’t see. The sea is far, wide, stretched in your cavities; the crevices of your hide; my fish doesn’t like that. She takes everything away! She holds them inside of her cave, while she swims with her tail in her legs. She logs their heads there,
she holds their heads there; she follows the leader, she saw her as a cheater.
Maybe if you are lucky you can get a selfie of my chest . . .
acacia Sep 18
. . . but I don't have the courage this life time,
(Why? 'Cause look all you want: there's no use); I am threaded yet i am chained!
Don't you contemplate?
I must sit and eat at a table (I admit it); dance for a weary amount, though, I am a hoarder: a hoarder of bisouls, of biscorns, of biwhole )bihalves(

so right now
  Sep 18 acacia
footsteps echo in dreadful anticipation
the faint whispers of the faceless ghosts in the basement
a haunted willow speaks to you crying in dying tongues
its leaves weep as they fall leading the blinding sun
a scorched field of lost hopes leaking ashes as it bleeds
scarecrows talk to landscapes / CHASING TRACES OF BROKEN DREAMS
direct your gaze inwards and detach from the physical shell
your body rests in the white emptiness the higher planes do compell
countless suns awaken burning in the horizon
the downward blossom open stoking flames of spiritual guidance
the heavens alignment
toking breath beneath shuttered eyelids
arranged in a bouquet of violence
now unattached and undivided
bear witness to the karmic wounds scattered through lifetimes
foundations of immense energy corroding in weathered pipelines
a still form waiting against a deluge
masterful in its ignorance straining astral venues
dripped in inopulence and misfit illusions
unshackled with uncertainty treading in awkward movements
metamorphism evolution into sapient creations
let there be a consciousness metacognitively perpetuating this matrix
acacia Sep 10
I haven't seen you in a while; did you know today I wanted to be pink? Today I wanted to dress up in purple darkness (like the juice we drink in the dawn and dusk to commemorate the fertile groves between your mother's—that is I—legs) that'd stain every shoe you'd wear. You could sip orange juice while I dance all over the mirror,

the mirror, the mirror sees you in the way I'd want to: like the water—from every angle—like an angel you've been, even when my own plasma splashed your anatomy—from every view of that frimple in your eye, of the crinkle in your cheek, of the small mark above your nose.

My baby boy, conditionally, we are suppressing these memories: the memory of you no longer loving me. What is a mother going to do? Her baby bird has broken his farthest-right-wing; the dapper dauphin desires to fly even when he can tweet no longer. Can he even bring the petals to the celebration?

So because of this I cry and pray and grovel in the coarse sand while dusting my feathers; the same bath you used to sit in with I, smiling when I’d brush the hard Earth from your tiny head. Take your leaves and bring them to the nest:

feed me with words, I’ll feed you endorphins: my little bird, just let me die, take my note to Suicide—your phermones are all I need, I inhale them furiously. And we cry and we sigh to the God (inside us) above us, and we beg It to bless us with soft vapor that swallows us like the Swallow does; cuneiform scribes as the whispers form to you: bring me luck for my own return—I want my arc; I need rays to hit me with the brightest contingent beam. Poisoning you and not me, so I wouldn’t have to go on without you by choice.
I will grade the essay about the light inside of you, you present on the light inside of Me, me inside of You;

this started as an automatic writing session but then I started to expand on "My soul is maternal like a native country"

So this is automatic turned sequel. . . this doesn't have any direct muse, just an image of my head of a mom and a son and her husband
Next page