Haven't set up an alter In I dont' how many moons The few times I tried I truly knew the futility of it And understood That security, for me, is fleeting
Just another thing That seems so easy for the others Oh no dont applaud My baby brain for its Whining,ll just make it worse So the other day after I snatched the sage you left For me outside your window sill (Thank you btw)
I instinctively started Making YET ANOTHER ALTER Then broke down for the 5th time that day "How could someone like you ever deserve a home" Then I had remembered That Im not allowed to Have a safe space
I'm a drifter Pushing the limits My health is at risk Every minute No one to care Whether I die or live
Sitting on my hands In a thicket Praying wishing waiting thanking God that I woke still broken Throwing up stuff Everytime I tried to move
Hunger Hurt Thirst Hate Anger Thankful Stay low on your toes Heatstroke Dryheave Please No Please make it stop Oh god here it comes again My Sweat drips endlessly Chiggers bit my skin So it wont quit itchin'
Bites that bother until next week Typical.... All I want is a place to hang my hat Or hopefully lay my head without trip wires surrounding Me All I want is to oggle my alter and call on my angels and my God Without being on constant alert Watching my own six
Bc your own brother will turn on you Don't get comfortable Dont relax Dont unpack Dont believe A ******* thing they tell you Prove me wrong then
Haven't had a mfr not turn Haven't seen anyone actually keep their word
And why cant i set up an alter without it being destroyed?
My week has been hectic sporadic challenging. This poem was written in bits throughout the course of this week i realize im all over the place and my head space is caving in
the onion in father's hands had no time to cry, he punched it with his fist on the corner of a table, then ate it with salt and sheep's cheese, (like pyramid builders my father was paid in onions)
the onion in mother's hands was sweet, called brotherly onion, and made many leaves, spring after spring it was multiplied throughout the village people kept wondering how the onion in mother's hand doesn”t bring tears,
- the onion in my hands is waiting
to clean it with my hands, to cut it with a knife, to punch it with a fist,
I think, whenever I have an onion in my hands I think,
These hands art weary from Juggling heavy tribulations Thrown towards Me at supersonic Speed By life and humanity, working In harmony, snatching away Whatsoever joy comes my way At any given moment Of course.
Today is but a twin of yesterday, Bearing the same cruel whip My back has tasted far too Many times.
Each chapter thus far, chronicling My accounts I narrowly endure is Penned by Yahweh, The author behind my hardships.
Whilst optimism screams Into My stubborn ears, logic persuades Me my final chapter will be much The same. So Let me burn my partial Story, Prematurely.