Almost Made It

It’s like someone played the wrong chord on a vital organ… now I can hear the rising score morphin and taking over. Taking over the senses it connects to, it connects four because the clouded eyes behind these glasses are pourin.

Somewhere, in a garden hidden inside a forest, a flower falls…

A hitch in the step of sunrise, not strong enough to break into dawn, the darkness of the void is granted more time. Unintended benevolence, ignorant of what’s ahead of us, fishin for love with negligence, forfeiting our inheritance, trying to attain a better trust. Empty handed in the end, facial expression incredulous.

Like a roll of thunder, the flower crashes powerfully to the ground…

The bees lose passion for their honey… Badgers crawl from the cracks and crevices to lie dejectedly on the sand… the deer come down from the hills… Butterflies self identify with the cocoon… there are tear drops on the leaf tips. The dew of a morning that will either never come, or never cease. It’s only Tuesday, but the pews are already filled again. Completely unsure of what to pray, just aware that there’s a fresh crack inside and they don’t know how to fix it.

The broken flower rolls, idly, across the ground… slowly losing life yet captured in the twilight of ineffable beauty… there is no redemption in this- and even if there was, it’d be unnecessary.

Every petal isn’t meant to be saved.

Dear Maya

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Dear Maya…

It pains me we never met. It was an ordinary Wednesday, til I caught wind of your death, now I’m distressed- fingers running through my hair and getting lost like broken barretts. I would never claim to be your greatest fan, but the breeze that blew through your cage as you sang, carried your scent of greatness through time and space over to me.  It was like a seed of your love DNA was reframed and painted an awkardly strange yet desirable portrait in me.  The only thing I wanted to be… was your grandson.

Not in the legal, social sense, but in that special way that sometimes happens between two people… You see, I had this fantasy- and in it… I would walk up to you. Hesitant. You would smile. I would smile back. Then you’d take my hand and I’d cover it with my other one. We would look deep into each other’s eyes and see the kindred light shining the Morse code of the poetic mind in flashes of brightness that out shined the sun and made it look like tire rubber. And then, before any words were spoken, we would just… know. I became your grandson; And you became my grandmother.

The next words will probably make people scoff at me, but the pain of your passing is the anesthetic protecting me… I never read any of your books, never memorized your classic pieces, but I was fascinated by you as a person and how you taught the believers about believin. Truth be told, in every interview and recording I never saw you as old, but as living poetry. Every word, every breath, every phrase, every inflection of imparted wisdom, was literary excellence dipped and baptized in the Heavenly Nile- I fell in love with love off of your FREESTYLE!!

But now… like a confused caterpillar trying to get out of its shell, my heart is cracked with grief. Trying to rake away the sentiment that everybody leaves right when I need the strength to stay free. I don’t know where they store the tools to shift heart gears, but when I read that you died I shed real tears… I’m not a snail in a shell, I’m a caterpillar in a broken cocoon… but I’m not sure what’s coming through. Can’t tell if it’s a butterfly or something underdeveloped… I was hoping that one day you would tell me.

Dear Maya… I love you. I never met you, but I love you… that’s what your legacy is all about isn’t it? Love. And purpose. To cradle in your arms a lost and aching generation and tell them it’s okay to walk in your footsteps, as long as we yield control of the road to God and how He paves it.  Your words… your heart… your spirit… were aMAZING… I’m praying to be like you- the hero I loved. Which is probably why this hurts so badly. I would gladly trade any of my successes for seconds to look you in the eye and tell you…

I love you Grandma Angelou.

Gruesome Isolation

This is the beginning of where the end hates its start. You keep your monsters under your bed? Mine pay rent right in my heart! It’s hard to believe my demons can live in my blood stream, but when threads defy seams it seems that’s why I can never swim upstream.

Exactly.

I’m a two winged bird madly in love with gravity. When I look up at the sky, the earth just slaps me. Every time I pull away, the ground roughly grabs me. The roughness is all bite with no bark, and all these naked trees fallin on me leave a mark. Tryna do right, but progress cuts the lights out with the scissors that I used in art class to illustrate my life’s route.

Everybody wants what I got, but don’t wanna pay me to get it… Love the way I live, but critiquing every imperfect feeling.

Well I’m feeling like an uncensored ceiling- so high and disconnected, profanity is the only vanity where I’m pro myself and still have fans that can see me. Like I’ll stay cursed if I don’t, but I’ve never been a sketched etch to waste a rhyme, so I won’t.

Just know that I’m alone in this boat.

Everybody’s lookin for escape, I’m just tryna be the goat.

Duck Eyes

I’ve been ducking tears so long I failed to realize I’d slowly begun falling in love with heartache.

These tear ducts have become quacks like real ones… Because before, their actions meant I had learned something, but now the tear drop action just means I’m actin. Theatrical social performance to verify that I too have vilified passion, and that love in any form causes me to squeeze my eyes shut and move on past it.

The idea of falling in love is propped up by the idea of not falling- so when the opportunity for potential authenticity comes calling I doubtfully stand my ground until the sound of my pounding heart crashing into the street like a star knocked off a Christmas tree sounds through my being with resounding confidence.

Once again the tear has won.

Me.

Though I hear the voices of many here, when I open my eyes it’s only me here.

The drops splash down out of hopelessness from whence they come, and some instinct compels me to duck…

But because I never actually moved, my tearful addiction overtakes me in a rush and I slide down with the emotional flush…

A waddling prisoner of these tear ducts.

Countertop

The last tear drop on the counter belongs to me…

There is a breath- a heaving really- that takes place when the place taken by taken places plays favorites.  When the track record of spun emotional hits fails to record the streaming tracks sliding down your face and plunging off lips- when the only thing you’re left with is the counter that caught your scattered fragments.

OCD lovers, and made friends who became maid friends, frantically clean up my environment.  Glass is swept, but 20/20 tears remain invisible and quiet.  My clothes are straightened out- stains removed by re-staining with stain proof “new.”  The glue they used to fuse the crude accoutrements on this broken warrior into something suitable for a fashion lawyer is an oily substance.  Not designed for repair, but to reap the air and draw a harvest of hotly blown explanation to cover my unveiled illumination of how I really feel.

Thousands of paper towel rolls expire as they mop up the soaking wet counter- that’s because each and every splattered ocean drop is undeniably real.  They wipe faster and faster trying to dry the counter off with the rapidity of their movements.  Get a gusting wind to come gusting in gushing gusto to give strength back to my guts again… but they missed a spot.  There, dangling like pieces of my fractured insides, out of sight at the edge of the countertop… A swirling, prismatic, micro-cosmic globe of stained emotions, pierced heart pieces, and misunderstood intentions all wrapped up in the bosom of the sea…

That last tear drop on the counter belongs to me.