I was raised
in a wild field

where colors clash
and everything grows

rain floods and
no one drowns

bees feed sting
and die

to be reborn every spring

weeds are beautiful
and grass is free

we live every day
we are alive

we are bounded only

by both stages
of the dandelion

bright sunshine
and silver dust

blowing free
in the wind

to land and
grow in another

wild field

the cut of loneliness
does not bleed

no matter how
many cuts

everything inside
is dry
and dead or dying

I am not the first
to feel

this way but
for your sake

I hope I am
the last

truth is slippery
not slimy

but some words are
not real

they are birthed
in the swamp

by soul *******
creatures

who make you
believe

who make belief

like they are making
a midnight snack

taking a bite
and throwing away

the leftovers

A song is message
A message written in melody
With a powerful voice
I sing my story
Songs of different emotions
From happiness to sadness
From fear to anger
I sing the ballads of my life

Calm blue streams
Traveling down stones
Making little waterfalls
Floating into lakes
Little water current
Traveling the world

I see nothing
I don't know what I look like
I don't what anyone looks like
Or anything
Hearing colors I don't see
Voices that have no face
Sounds with no maker
Why do I have eyes
If I can't see with them

so succulent
is love as it leaves your mouth

but how bitter and rancid it may be
when it tries to force its way back in

here, we do not talk about the mistakes.
we do not bring them to the light,
we let them sit inside our dark places,
let them fester and rot; eventually,
we let them **** us.
it’s only a matter of time, you see.
but we never speak of them.