I know you. I know me. All that was and is meant to be.
I see all the patterns in the tea. I hear
harmonies in the leaves.
I notice every nook and measure
and mesmerize the stars for pleasure
and memorize the stars and weather
and watch how all things dance together.
Please be kind. All existence seeps
inside this cherry rind I hide behind. I'm creating fruit
within - it is my power not my sin.
Don't taste me sour. At the right hour, all ripen
and climb to power. The tender vine does
take down the tower. With exhaustive truth
I will devour. Don't mind me.
Virgo's my Sun and Mercury. I am everything
I want to be, even when locked up in me.
My divine key, my words and me.
I manifest first inwardly. You exhale out
what I care about. You do not see
what I see. You doubt. You may look at me
with greed or disgust, but let's agree
to offer up a seed with dust and see if we grow
or rot it. If we can't pot it
then let's squash it. We don't gotta take it to the market.
If it don't work out, then don't be afraid
to toss it. Bring your mind to yourself.
Check your talons and be kind to yourself.
I'm not the challenge.
Some stars won't stay on the shelf. No boxes.
No bosses. These misfit elves burn differently.
I gotta galaxy in the midst of me, a black lit poster
reference of intensity. Icebergs are friends to me
that Antarctica sends to me, bleach-tipped and belly full
they reveal my enemies who only see tips of me
and hate that they pay. No tipping my energy.
I wash and rinse all day, wear my tag on my sleeve,
no arguin' of my make. If you're shook
by my playbook, it's the way
that I run.
I'm stronger than medicine.
I orbit the sun. I'm raw
organic at the very minimum.
I dip into both the sugar
and the cinnamon. Though I may show you
dessert, I may hide and desert you. Too many courses at once
your gut'll hurt you. I try to titrate.
That's why I migrate. Don't wanna die here,
so my dose is lightweight. Just like I fly here,
I erode with the weather. The winds brush my coffin off
and carve out new feathers. I'm tried
like good leather. All the scales have fallen off. Let my skins
fray and slough. My exoskeleton's behind
me, chrysalis-ed and butterflying.
You thought I was dying. Wow.
Look. At. Me. Now.
I move from flower to flower. I pollenate.
That's my power. When we demonstrate what is ours
that's how Mother Nature keeps balance. You think I'm dreaming
on hill? Imagination is a constant turning wheel.
That's innovation. So let me be
alone. I'm always doing more
than you KNOW. I am MORE
than you know. I am more
than ANYONE knows. I am more
than you? No. Sometimes I wonder...
staring out the window, four years old, a steady vigil
watching, thinking, dreaming, scheming - I was doing the work
so as I am now - a missionary's phone. There's sanctuary
in my zone. I will not atone for myself
on my thrown. Right hand taking notes for myself
coming home. You cannot erase what has been
foreordained to me. Don't play or pray for me.
To each bow and take a knee.
You are you.
He is he.
I am I.
She is she.
LOVE me most.
Let me be.
Let me be.
Let me be.
About the Creator
chillbaby5000
chillbaby5000 was diagnosed in her late 30's with PTSD & Autism and is finishing a poetic account of healing trauma, depression, & rage.
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The Smell of Quit
I go to this place to see the barn owl at noon. I bring a little bowl, some seed, and a spoon. A drop of warm milk as it sweetens the womb. Deep, heavy breaths. I slow as I reach her nest, take back the empty chalice left, and replace my bowl of divine respect as she nods to her sleeping brood. I feel invited, an apprentice, too. I feel chosen, but know kindness glues one to another. Let me in, I let you. Maiden, Mated, Mother. She's alone. I am too. No matter now. It's all color, different paints that we choose. A portrait of the other is only us - shades of rouge. I see her. She sees through. If I allow, I do too. All around reflects you. I am her owl. She has my food. Both in return are richer shades in hue. She purred once to bid adieu. See you tomorrow, my little muse. Whether you or I feathers first and flies, I saw new colors in your eyes. I see why they say you're wise. The coalition we've devised - though by no one recognized - as counterparts by candlelight is by no means new. It's a common catalyst for truth to spirits asking or confused, or to simply be amused. Human, Nature, Creature, Fae - as if at birth were separated - aggregate and find their way no matter what mankind can do. It's magic lying there in waiting, often felt when times are changing, sometimes found just by escaping, as in Cinderella's shoe. The ending of the whole charade leaves behind the biggest clue. You dreamt and spent, now wait, and know the wake returns to you. From far away, sounds from the gun, after you see it, then it comes and perches till every setting sun. A midday snack for bird and young. Here, more than one awakens one on the path of clover I wade through. Luck, she gathered us in two as a temporary truce while Chaos' hands are loose. Strong and warm, the barn and storm. A tree fell and a sound was born. The straw was torn, a bough adorned, a temple when I found no more. In silence now. Relaxed as her in tone and brow. Black as her tomb, she goes in and out. We sway. Still room. Mornings wear me out. Too much sun and I racoon. Too much hunt and she recoups. Beauty burned and left her soot, added water, painted her suit. I softly stroked her. She leaned into it. With too much will, she'll snap and I blew it. Her lessons run for me like fluid. But it's time to rest, not arouse her nest, so I blessed her as the Druids would and kept her safe in dark and wood. The barn withstood. Droppings underfoot. I gave her shield because that's all I could. Alone we heal if you're down to do it. Her down was soot. While I smolder through it, she wears her gown like gold shines through it. My goal. My idol. Someday, I intuit, for me as well, Midnight will come - a peaceful well for me to draw from, where's there's freedom from the sun and Darkness blankets everyone. Do not run when shadows run. Howling's heard, doors closed or open. Weather slows her throat when cows the field, stalks have to yield, broken halves revealed, and new rains have coat them. The smell of Quit has a sweet to it, binaural beats rooted, hands red in beets, drip, drip, grown deep in earth and excrement, exposed and beat, your tongue and wit are finally raw enough to note them. I closed the barn, left the window open. I went inside, found a sofa to soak in. Near twilight, listening to Chopin, through the curtain, I saw - wings open, sooted and sweet, sweeping and golden - my knighted spirit return to closure as she flew over. Over and over...
By chillbaby50004 years ago in Poets
Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts6 days ago in Longevity
Comments (1)
Insanely beautiful <3 enjoyed every line