i thought of this
in the sparkle of the early morning sunrise
that women have only one ****** purpose in life
to find someone suitable,
and then get pregnant right after
every single ****** function that happens to a woman is because
she is preparing to have offspring
our hips are widening
our bodies are thick
thick especially around our stomachs
patiently waiting for a child or at least an egg
in hopes of a tangible pregnancy
i watched myself in the mirror
slowing fading from the grasped image of myself
who is that life form staring back at me?
i realized if i don’t have a kid later on
i am going to have to become a nun
it’s not that i hate God or something of the sort
there is just no available information
and with this body of mine,
that only functions for something that isn’t even born yet
in my own body
i am not the main goal or the main crop of my body
a baby with brown, black, or blond hair
will plop out onto the table and my body will say, “good work, time for another one.”
and i don’t even know a man who could gift me such a valuable being
after all the mass murders and violence and shooting
i don’t think i wanna send my child into a world of fear
where every corner they turn is another disorder or a world order or a thief’s ******
but somehow my skin wants to breed another living breathing specimen
and if i create another girl who turns into a woman
i am going to have to tell her at some point
that the most proud thing
she can do in life is give birth to another child
and if she asks why
with my teeth gritted and my bloodshot eyes
i will say, “i don’t know, it’s just life.”

Lines on the page are like my personal prison bars;
Where all my arresting thoughts are locked away.
Ink and me, worn and fading
As each calendar day is torn,
Crumpled and forgotten.

Like a black hole, my journal entraps the light;
The turning of a page only paints,
An image of one perpetually falling.
Spiraling endlessly towards a center
I will fall short of reaching.

Why?
Because every memory is still beautiful!
Even when intentions of actions were unkind.
For these burning fires have birthed
My greatest strengths.
Thank you for all you have done.
Our roles at the close of the last act, complete.
Watching as the curtain closes
Shedding the glove, we call a body
We return to the Light from which we came.

Lay rest your flashing glaze of wishes
Down received for a moment
Breathy bow lifts to hold
and waver across few measures
Sienna and topaz
Sienna and topaz
Singe and simmer
Shine and glimmer against
All the thoughts born and dead

What makes you eager to rise
If it is not sensing gone away stories
or nursing the aches that lunge through anywhere else but here
While you replay and delay all creation
the blossoming goes unseen

She, the maiden is reigning
Une palais à remplir
Une palais à remplir
where she is her own queen
Her oceans made of no time channel open mouths
flooding its spill

She waded into The archer
Downed in his own vessel he mistook himself the pilot of

He, marooned in the surrender of damp and fertile places
where in Death he is still recovering
Soldiering and sullen
Soldiering and sullen
He is choking, and can not stop to see or savor the blossoms rising from his own till

And what you plan to do,
Green plant that sit in room?

Where thinks could be your dreams?
Or do you even dream at all?
What sunsets could you see?
Or swimming shore above?

And question me your roots,
In dirt that act like boots:

Are tickled they like hell?
In brown and white soil?
Can itchy get your face?
Does water run too deep?

Now look at me your leaves,
Which rarely bend from tree:

What age could they recall?
Of passions, dreams, and all?

And what you plan to do,
Green plant that sit in room?

Blissful,
   Blissful,
      Blissful,
         Fall the starry skies:
      And the clouds that chime above
      In night time do the otters cry
         And wolf-men shout beside the dove:
      
      Angels sing in pockets queer,
         Fairies dance along the spark,
      Boughs of faces soon appear
         As branches watch throughout the start:
      
      Owls sing as crickets please,
         The moon lifts her vision for the sky,
      Blissful,
         Blissful,
            Blissful,
               Fall the starry spheres:
            For every moment of the night.