The bonsai grew all wrong Its branches outweigh the base And the wood is whispy and pale Without the spring a sapling entails It's big, much too big, too long A band stretched past its place Becomes a twig in impatient hands Pressured, and snapped, and palmed Bonsai's mature slowly With snow and vibrant leaves To rush things is more than lowly You've sold their soul you thieves
_ _ , _ _ , 2 0 1 9 is a day gone to the ashes of kismet’s pages
the midday zephyrs and wino meditations that ran through streets like rainfall now live in the hippocampus
the bright side’s gone with the dark the whole day, for what it was, is no longer and it bugs me out
that through any endless combo of permutations and planetary rotations, the same circumstances that built the ground of yesterday will never repeat or will they?
I’ll never know like the licks that reduce a Tootsie Pop to crumbs I’m not intelligent, I’m dumb because it took me 27 years to learn the value of 24 hours to learn that a lotus bloom is something to treasure ten times more than scraps of pure gold
we are the children of nature what does that make our creations?
Humans birthed a cosmos of currencies and chambers of computer generated concoctions. . .
are they not descendants of the Mother? In some abstract way?
Idk, dude, I’m out of it, if you know me, you know exactly what that means - - but I digress - -
It’s just that I never got the chance to tell the day how grateful I was to have it and I now know that wasting time is a luxury modern civilization can enjoy after epochs and eras
this day and age is as far from perfect as the brain is from perfection, tech grew faster than the collective consciousness and we still limit worth and love to skin and heteronormativity
but at least for a small sliver of time things were, in a single moment . . . pretty good.
Like most things there is a time to leave, a time to leave the nest one was raised in. But the question is if the flight out will be smooth.
Will you glide on ice or end up hitting rock bottom? Either way this is learning of the survival.
Unlike previous species, we are taken care of until a number deemed "adult." Other than some exceptions that is when we take off when the wings are spread out to engulf the air of what is new.
Sticks and stones break our bones, but they will forever leave a scar of a lesson learned good or bad. It is these scars that show the growth longed for problem is that the path for this growth seems to be an outline. It has been a marked trail for most in their lives so traveling off the beaten path holds a sense of uncertainty. It is either embraced, ran from or lived on the cusp.
Learning is done by experiencing by doing or watching but how can their be learning with only one teacher one voice one person speaking to you giving the answers and guidance. There needs to be an abundance of people involved.
One's skin thickness does not grow overnight but over a period of independence where you understand how to do something who you are who to let into life who to cut out and mix in some wishful thinking here and there.
We want to plant our roots let them expand let them tell their story but that is just a wish masking the underlined work. Knowing the time to leave is the start of this growth. Unlike other species, we have deemed a certain number to dictate when growth starts. Along with the exceptions, we grow we get cut down. It is all endured because of a base, a wish, a dream.
Just taking into account some of the stresses and thoughts I have had this past year.
How do I go about shedding the shells that earned me a pat on the head and a "good girl"?
I was the parent's dream, a blue-ribbon giftee of civility, the picture of obedience, and oh so mature! The 'quiet child' cachet was my only allure.
This caged bird didn't sing of sentiments and other sinful things, but spent decades nesting feelings.
When all alternatives felt illicit, I reserved my torments for exclusive exhibitions, where I held the only ticket. Those showcased, glass displays are my poems now, I've stuffed them with secrets I can't talk about, but can write down.
Do the people who raised me deserve an applause? I've got songs dancing in my head and they're the cause of my closet of flaws. Would I even have it in me if I was a happy child, bold and wild? They say art is for those who've lived in the rain; Well, I've had my cup of it and I guess, this is my exchange.