we do not believe the confessions
before our faces,
the admittance of the travesties.
we choose to see things how
it is constructed to be seen.
there is always the choice,

I think its the missing rituals
that we forgot. spell casted,
fog rot. rolling in on all the mediums
that come from system, all of them.
so we're a little bit bombarded.

the muse of the creators, the power,
the originator, She, is to be trusted.
misguided centuries
have turned the heads disgusted
at the miracles of  their times,
witnessing the feminine spirit of the spine
birth a child, or raise a tribe.

She and her daughters are the ones
who know alone,
that moment, that human form
pushes out of your core,
emerges from the dark,
the songs of spirit circling the babe,
caressing the body for the trek.

alone, that moment. you have no one.
there is no option, it is you and God
gracing the entrance of new life.
portals being used so frequently
we call it normal…

we cut wombs, screaming
mama cannot open, (as her entire system shuts down from stress)
woman robbed of her moment alone,
her moment to know,
to remember her home,
the submitting to faith alone
that she is alive!
(pitocin has the exact same effect,)

robbed of birth, the birthing mother
weeps for the gut wrenching, stomach hurdling
pain to cease, the pain of creation.
the necessary absorption for mother
to mother, to heal her children, her nation.

in that moment alone she learns who she is …

with that moment she becomes mother,
her ritual as a creator.
woman finds her way there regardless,
though these moments are the ones
God created to witness self,
to hear the music of movement,
to live in the creative destruction,
as one.

some will tell the story as there are many sides
there is only one.