She is a pearl, not fully grown yet.
She hides in her shell away from the predators that only want to rob her of herself.
Over the years she grows, she adapts to the world around her because she knows that once she is done growing she will be something beautiful.
She plays show and tell with the tales of her young depression, the solitary game of hide of seek that she wanted so badly to win but she could never find herself.
The only game she ever wins is the mind game that no one other than herself can figure out.
She is awarded champion for making it into high school, the hell years of her life.
She did it, she made it this far,
And now everyone and everything are at her throat trying to drown her in her self doubt and the misery that a waits when she comes up for air.
She holds her trophy high as if it was supposed to be a beaken of hope repeating to herself "I can do it".
She questions her heart, like her heart is the one teasing her with happiness but we all know it isn't.
She tries so hard to hide herself from everyone who could potentially cause her harm but its impossible, her shell is cracked and everyone has found the opportunity to try to break in.
Her insecurities are scars, heart breaks are bruises, betrayel shows as broken bones, dishonesty are missing teeth for each person who has ever walked out of her life.
...
She plays a game of show and tell with her young depression, like she can point to each scar and say "I was fat", each bruise and repeat "he left me for her", each broken bone, each tooth and her tears will tell you the rest.
She will walk over to her trophy case and sigh because she knows it doesn't give her hope, its just proof showing she could withstand breaking infront of everyone for years.
She is a pearl who grew up the wrong way, she will never be perfect.
She will have dents and cracks and she won't be as strong as she was supposed to be.
But that doesn't matter because only beautiful people show their flaws,
She is still everything beautiful to me.

The probability of life itself is unpredictable
For I can’t extract your mind or heart to decode
Likelihood of possibilities in measurable quotient
For I can’t retract a past gone by to encode
Continuums of even chances and certainty
The toss of the toasted dime, the weigh of sides
Slashed slide all smashed and thrown in mines
Fallibilism of my indefinable opinionated delicacies
Attenuations of what life is attacks and strangles my neck
Global troubles of war, bombs, hunger, anger
Illogical connotations of overlapping determinism
I burrow like a termite in a convex rising molehill
Terminated in contrasted stations as we convene
Gripping hands to grasp our existence in life
I wonder about the whole of it, I think of it somedays

none of it
is meant
the way
it feels,
it makes
me feel.

the real thing?
but a cold dish.

i hate emptiness.

time to move.
void is always
vacant.

The Sun holds to her ancient place
and we dance to her song

Live sings the light, live

I am a pilgrim of divine , rugged convocations with my maker . Longing to trek the swaying fields of Newfoundland ..
At the rock encrusted deliverance with countenance eastward , overlooking the living waters of Norse legend , with mirrored thoughts of exploration and homeward voyage .

Fall and follow down the river
Walking the sacred streets in silence
How imbued with the ethereal mist of prayers are these tables
These wooden chairs I sat in and wrote the diaries of my youth
I wrote lies with causal power
Constructed the material from ideas
Spoke over the waters and found land

Eat a candy cane to cover the scent of rolled tobacco on your breath
And get on a plane
Green busses down cobblestone lanes
Follow them like purple orchids on the terrace

Fall and follow down the river
A brown bench,
Balding fog
Sit like kneeling at the altar of the saint of childhood innocence
Repeat her prayers
Chant her mantras
Sing her hymnals
Ritual tower chimes with hell’s fear behind it
Rope and brass that dare not fall or falter
Down the river
Ripples like innumerable green eels screeching through the sacred heart of our Lord and city centre

Mornings like Masala chai and sunshine
How infinite and unceasing the heartbreak of those who love too deeply
How inevitable the prolonged fall of the great
Like eighteen razor blades
Shot through the sunrise
Bitter fruit of memory merciless
No amount of sacrifice can atone for the imperfections that lie beyond the boarders of my control
But I hail Mary nonetheless

Fall and follow down the river
Mother Mary cannot hear over the pounding power of the current
So seal your lips with black clay
And do not cry
For there is nothing more to mourn
Morning comes ripping down the track like a freight train
Tarantula clouds and sunbeams scamper over the sockets of your log-laden irises
Bleeding indigo from parallel razor blade canyons
Filled with the ghosts of things you were never promised

Masala chai oversteeped like the strong scent of river memory
Tremble tell me I’m forgiven
In your white robe anointing oil
Tell me I’m the chosen one
Incense and ****** knees from kneeling at sandpaper pews
Getting drunk of Eucharist, the Holy See,
Oceans of archives, history, prophecy,
Frankincense and myrrh,
Frankenstein, the Light, the Vine and highways through the suburbs
Jump off bridges
Fall and follow down the river

An eye for an eye
And a stitch for a stitch
Mile for mile river prayers define and drown me
Thick slabs of scripture separate me from my sisters
Masala chai and sunshine
Vaseline and pale northern light clear the black river clay from your pores
Embrace the snow
Teach yourself to love the suffocating questions that burn and blind you
Retroactive sacrifice still requires fresh indigo blood
Donate freely.
Fall and follow
Down the river
To the sea
Salt water heals all razor blade wounds
Even the self-inflicted
The choices you make to be good or great are swallowed in the moon tide
Sticky tie-dye bruises erase themselves with time and prayer
Like cups of strong Masala chai.