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sparklysnowflake Oct 2018
i want to pick myself up
            head in pinched fingers
pull my tired body out of reality's
stone walls and
            blurry vision
aching steps
            and charred black worries

crumple me up
            melt me down
and pour me
into the tiny orange flame
of a tall white candle

let me hover over
life
crackle softly
rest peacefully
and
burn

slowly
breathing the turquoise like lavender,
and sipping the blue summer.
bitter cold clouds glide and morph lava lather,
floating whispers cut by sweet pineapple sunshine.

soon, a moment, now
rhythms ripple the sky like skipping stones
we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

cobalt bass rumbles the earth hungry,
pumps the air with springing spirals
pushing and pulling the senses,
reverberating through cells.

heavy mud humming, stomping
echoes through our atoms dizzy;
balancing tuned body to innate electricity
the fizz of circulating lemonade energy.

we jump the music like puddles
splashing in the frequencies.

strawberry melodies spilling ribbons,
dolphin leaps of the spaces inbetween beats,
lines of colours overlapping,
colliding, mixing, merging, blending
in with the forest.

washing over souls the life fire sparkles
like a clear water cleansing harmonies,
sound waves crashing against inertia.
phosphorescent glow of re-charged love
for the world, for being, animation

flowing through burnt smoky ashes
of sapphire charcoal skies;
dimmed radiation of chlorophyll emerald days.
the smell of salt, dry bark, fluffy carbon mists,
trembling lights softening the eyes'
grip on outlines, loosening lies.

watching the cycles of patterns
tumbling colours through a mill rotating,
and the silence of listening
when the music comes to an end.
Something I've been working on for a long time on and off since 2015.
sparklysnowflake Sep 2018
Beauty is everywhere … isn’t it?
Truth ribbons twisted into knotted nests
housing corrupt filth and crusted lies
            remain deliberately ignored
to spoil further
and pollute the air with
            smog the color of rupees and shifty eyes

why let sleeping dogs lie?

too many can crowd your Mind
steal the breath from your eroding lungs
press against the brittle glass of
            moral compasses
                        and shatter
            rights and wrongs
blur lines between
            honest ambition and power addiction
            use and abuse
            the lower classes and
                        “untouchable” garbage scavengers plastered
                                    with muck and grime
                                    too filthy for water to clean
                        deprived even
                                    of the life of a sleeping dog

absolute power corrupts absolutely
Power is not love
            whether you are crooked slumlord of Annawadi
            or All-Holy Divine Servant to God Himself
and neither is pride
Love does not burn tongues
            except when it is not
Holding me with his right hand
and scarring me with his left
is not even half-love

sleeping dogs don't deserve to lie
It is my universe to disturb
They will bite me but
the crushed Purple Hibiscus
            underneath full bellies
will unfurl their petals and rise up
again.
Written as a synthesis of and response to Purple Hibiscus by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Behind the Beautiful Forevers by Katherine Boo
sparklysnowflake Aug 2018
everything is breaking
not melting
            as the frozen pond
is relinquished by Winter
slowly the ice
            recedes
                        peacefully
no
I am
breaking
            not even like the shattering of a china doll
I wish it was
            that easy
I am breaking
            slowly
eyes melting into
            pitiful milky puddles
fragments forming and fissures widening

everything is lost
but you can't tell
only I can because
            I am the one who
                                                had to
            surgically remove
souls from bodies
            to protect them
you see a snapshot of their lifeless husks
            and you don't know
            you see me posing with them
                        boasting them
            painting myself
                                    a
                    ­                            w
                                   ­                         a
                                      ­                                  y
you don't realize
            that you can't take a picture
            of something so pure
so
I had to
break
everything

nothing is mine anymore
but still
nothing
            will ever
be
yours
sparklysnowflake Aug 2018
I agree that
you are the epitome
            of perfect
everything you do is
            impeccable, flawless
your life is free of paint splatters–
                        unless they are symmetrical–
            wild, unbridled adventures–
                        unless they are in your schedule–
            loops of messy cursive–
                        unless they are precisely designed
                        to embody a particular style–

and nothing you do
            is ever wrong
ever disorderly
ever imperfect

but
what are you
            now that you can produce
            perfection?
            can you say
                        with the pure honesty you are so proud of
                        that you are
                                    free?
                      ­  that you are not a slave to what you make?

did you ever stop cleaning
                        wiping
                        e­rasing
                        redoing
                        re­writing
to notice that
you have eradicated with
            blind disdain and vehement prejudice
            what might be considered
                        art?

that the joy of flawlessness is not real–
            just
                        the temporary absence of fear?

that true, natural, unplanned beauty has become
            not only your enemy but a lethal weapon?

that maybe
in your relentless process of perfecting
            you have generated imperfection?
a note to myself
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