Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
Let me tell you a little story.
A little story, I shall tell you.
Keep it hush.
Yes, please do.
Down to memory lane, let’s run this cue.
Once was a little girl, with six dots on her face.
Questions asked, so let’s cut to the chase.
“What are the dots on your face?”
“Why do you have so many?”
“Are they freckles?”
No. I don’t know. And, no.

Back to the top, now here we go.

Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
But my mother can.
She meant no harm.
However, harm was all that was felt.
I know she just wanted me to be the same.
It really was a shame.
“There was too many” she heard and said.
Which left my self-confidence to dread.
Pick in, pick out.
The dots would continue to fall down.
But they’re a part of me.
They would come back and sprout.

I believe I’m okay now.
Like was stated before,
My mother meant no harm.
And I still love her very much as usual.
I believe she was doing her best.
And her best was the best.

This generation knows only darkness
and sleeps on its back

the sleeper windmills violence in upon
it’s own sensory plate
                                       (the turbulence of
                                        fit-fusion
           ­                             and shapeless
                                        mood based dreams)

                
protest whine

offence

a life less of assurance
awaiting instruction

bore
froth
tend
endurance

Days are no fun
played out underground

A Mole baring task-force
A clunder

Muscle beings
reading the darkness

              

Tales held of the higher plane
an existence firm upon the roof terrain

Once a thriving insistence
ocular culture and unpushed air

This is what came to the generation
of post surface availability

              

The Moles are quaked
they raise in hunch
reach out for their boots and tools
begin the awake shift

blind faith
lead them to believe
in a charlatan
like moles they were
sightless
to the false god

they were following
he who had nothing
of the Messiah's
tangible fabric

never did it dawn
on them
that he was selling
a religion based
on disrepute
none of his disciples
being overly astute

and still they're listening
and still they're standing
with his stead
and still they can't eye
the paucity of street cred

Why do we need to redeem ourselves?
To know one and to cherish one
To live thy life that we solely covet
No turning back, only now

Moles are blind and see no light
But they find their way
Carving mud and dust to get
To one’s itinerary

Paving their ways through filth
But they find their way
With warrens, dug in and dugout
And trusting their grit and snout

Working their way through lands
But they find their way
Through hard work with their two bare hands
Burrowing and Burrowing

Heroes and heroine
Harrowing and harrowing, but not like blind moles
Worry, why? Aren’t you much precious than them, darling?
With gift of sight, to see one’s light