sleeveless

[Eŋg]

((i am the blues))

i am not a poet. that's a label.
i'm an able, ancient force of creation
predating words to shape it.
i am nascent:
sapience growing only
when it's known it's not grown.
i am home
when wandering amongst
foreign winds not foreign.
to lack a sense of belonging
is to forget one's Self.
forfeit one's self-image;
identity tied to other's eyes
will compromise your visage.
instead actualize your instinct.
that often forgotten knot in your gut,
untie its corrupt tangle and tug.
wear your heart on your tongue
-- what's your sleeve ever done?
except deceive that we are spun
from the same fabric of unchained magic
or obscure that we are pure as we begin,
but unsure what we’ve become,
pure... as we begun,
pure as we come in – naked, skin and bone.
ruled by will alone,
shifting stone to house our souls,
if we could just crack the mould
of our old habits I know that it’d grow arid lands
and make verdant the earth between us.

but you don’t listen. you’re a genius.

you’ve lived a thousand lives a phoenix,
you know we lie between mars and venus,
but you don’t know we lie to ourselves and believe it.
looking outside to see what’s scenic,
yet never within because the tremulous din
of cavities sing sorrow.
are we then hollow, living in atrophy?
little black holes dripping causality
-- pull me in, give me more gravity.
fill my lungs with dirt to peel borders back.
let me breathe earth and bleed water that
cuts the sinewed strings
wound around this thing I call mortality
and I wake the fuck up. sleeping far too happily.
no, i’m not a poet.
i’m just poetry that’s happening.