Be kind to your own mind:
When it wakes you in the middle of the night,
(Your thoughts afraid of their own shadows;)
Hold it like you hold a child:
Softly, yet with all your might,
(Turn its terror into a fable;)
Don’t ever be ashamed to love yourself.

Dance; bathe your heart in sweat:
Make the hurricane jealous of your fervour;
Sing; summon gods with your breath:
Make the stars beg for your favour.

a
poem is
a pharaoh's tomb:
the i interred in immortality.

My words drip colors:

They do not breathe
Through consonants and vowels;

They do not seethe
With passion or sorrow;

They do not aim like arrows;
They do not trip on talons.

My words make chaos:

They overfill
My bones and marrow;

They slip and spill
Through cracks so narrow;

The raising of an eyebrow;
The mumble through a mouthful.

My words come back to me:

They find release in hands and fists,
(that hit and hit and hit)

They seek reprieve in tears and drinks,
(that drip and drip and drip)

They bloom like flowers
(not on my lips as I speak -
but upon elbows and knees)

My words drip colors, and so color me.

No, mother, I am not
The fairy tale girl with vipers sliding from her throat;
But rather, the vipers coil
In the pit of my stomach where my anger would rot;
So I dip my words in their poison
Lest it eats a hole in my skeleton;
Lest the world should see
The viper's nest inside of me.

Oh, why don’t you wander,
My little fickle heart?
There’s a rose-bud– there’s a thunder
Why not settle for that?

“Roses stung me, thunder burned me,”
Said the little fickle heart
“So I stole a petal and a flash,
Won’t you let me now come back?”

Oh, but what of wonder,
My little fickle heart?
Worlds await you– words will mend you
Why not settle for that?

“Words enslaved me, worlds forsake me,
When their magic had worn out.
But I brought a paper and a pen,
Won’t you let me back again?”

Ah, you’re so ungrateful,
My little fickle heart!
Life will bend you– I’ll betray you
Why d'you settle for that?

“‘Long as you would let me rest
Bruised and bleeding in your chest,
‘Tis but all I’ll ever ask”
Said the little fickle heart.

One sleepless night I heard the lark
Chir-chirruping inside my heart;
Got up to find her in the dark
To capture her and set apart
Her stringless resonating harp
On which she played a note so sharp;
My very soul said: "Hark, oh, hark!
What is this iridescent spark

That set my every thought aflame?
For in its sound I heard my name!
That made my ear and eye so changed
That all the world illuminates?
It will not let me sleep again
Until my every breath is spent!"

I looked and looked and looked in vain
But carried with me the refrain
So every time I turned around
The sound was coming from without;
At lenght I closed my tired lids
And heard the lark sing from within;
And this is how I figured out:
I'm not the kindling. I'm the spark!

The birds are singing in their sleep
And my brain paints its fevered dreams
Amidst the stars; and my heart starts
And asks if ships, seen from above,
With their lights on, form constellations;
Did someone ever tell the moon
Her light is merely a reflection?

The falcon, too, was once earth-bound,
    And scared to leave the solid ground;
    (How curious, to be afraid,
    To use the wings that you were given;)
    But she joined hands with her own terror,
    And let it lead the path to heaven;
    (How glorious, to understand,
    To use the power of your demons.)

Gather, gather
All the scattered
Pieces of yourself;
Daughter, daughter,
Fight your battles
With the weapon of yourself;
Take the shrapnel
From your bossom;
Turn it into something else:
A poisoned wine-cup,
A deadly blossom;
Make war like what you are:
A work of art.

your eyes are the mirror
the sky looks into.