in the sanctity of sanity is where I now aspire as years and my humanity insist that I conspire to find a hole in vanity and breathe what I inspire until the words drip from my veins and sanctify this fire
There are those seasons Of the life That a happening unfolds When a poets table turns And The life in the living Is An extended group of Events Each one A profound poetic moment Shaped of divinity and vibration
my body is a temple. -- but not for god or for you. the hair it grows, the winters it has spent shaking the lies it tells me. -- all of this is mine. your hands may touch my hands, but they are not yours. my body is a war. -- filled with roads for which i have no map, and rivers that drown me again and again.