bang against
the glass and break,
sun against skin
porous thin,
window pane.
we begin the same
no name, no shackled
weight, no net we
seek to escape,
each word yet
unlearnt hangs
unheard
in some unknown
air, waiting to be
plucked fresh
from the vine
imbibed like wine,
into a part of
the heart that learns
the word 'pain'
too often to remain
the same.

it opens
like a wound
a torrent of
flumes and
the worries
subsume.
the day has
broken
with a thud
& every thing
we are, were, was,
momentarily
stops.
a
system as
tightly
bound as
ballet shoes
loosens
and we
become
the mist.
and when it sighs
a part of us dies,
the world's
engine ignites,
and those
familiar cogs begin
to grind
inside the
mind.

i found the
path and
wound
around
and the weight
that fixed
me, that
buried me
in its territory
felt less heavy,
but there really
is no
heavens door
i see no opening
to the place i
called before
just trees
and cars,
flaws on
top of flaws,
flowers in the
crevices of the
walls,
an order in
the chaos of
it all.

i'm trying to
rewind,
to start anew,
but every
word i use
is tied to a
particular
time, and i'm
stuck in that
line of history,
a never ending
story,  even
with a different pen,
crossing it out
and starting
again, i can't just
leave, maybe the
epiphany is that
we're always here,
that we grow up
in the same soil,
means we all
share in the
toil, that we create
it after all.

prize open
the core and its
crisp and the
blood is rich
and you remember,
and sew yourself
back together.

sometimes you
forget that your
real, that you come
alive at the seams,

that your lungs
spread themselves
out like wings,
and take in the
wind that cradles
your frame as
you sit under
the tree in the
dancing rain,
reminding yourself
that you have a
name.