Floods to gardens~ poetry collection
.
Darling,
the tears
they may seem to drown you
but truly,
they are the rains of your past
watering the gardens of your future
your drought is almost over
the blooming lays ahead
.
This thievery
is quite peculiar
in that
even though they stole
a part of you
you’re the one
who
can return it
.
Although you’ve been played
your preciousness hasn’t been tainted
you are timeless vinyl
in a world that rejects it
.
Darling,
it’s true,
that lighting of yours,
it frightens some away
but please,
don’t stop your striking
for all this means is
the
sky
is
yours.
.
Like the piercing, pale eyes
on an agile
ocean eyed
stone black cat
.
My intuition,
It guides me
through
the darkest strokes of the clock
.
Cells of life developing
faster than your fury,
throughout those 9 months,
I was too young
for any recollection
of how it felt
But somehow,
someway,
today
I miss it.
for only then
was my pulsing heart
closer to yours
than it was to the world
.
Yes, it’s true,
I’ve moved mountains
but it’s day like these
where I worry about the snow
and it’s ability
to melt,
to pour,
to flood.
.
When the petals still pulsed,
the last moment the dew didn’t drown,
I plucked myself from the soil,
and into your vase plopped my stem.
its pond hugged my crisp curves,
only for the glass to shatter,
leaving pieces I must pick up.
So now,
I wonder,
the shards,
will they stop stabbing,
blood pooling,
blank eyes peering?
.
Through the pipeline, my intuition sang with a brightness as shyly iridescent as the moon herself. My fear hadn’t vanished, although the cries of silence were no longer heard. A quest for contentment sparked its trail through my alabaster bones as the darkness of those years turned to dust. As I gathered together my shattered shards, they no longer pricked my pure flesh, staining the angel-white linen of my life. Although the glass still sometimes pricks, my shaking fingertips finally hold a mosaic masterpiece that glistens in the light of the fire spewing from my emerald eyes.
.
Perfection is an illusion.
Don’t look, don’t listen.
After all,
if people told the prodigy
“use stencils or else”,
she would gawk and
paint
on.
.
Darling, you’ve busted
those shackles,
you’ve broken
the lock,
now,
all you’re to do,
is realize
the only guards
you must run from
are those you’ve created
.
There’s much one can re-learn,
even if there’s roots rigged
with the opposite
in the depths of their brains soil
•
Self- love is included
But first,
you must teach a phlox
from the Winter
how to flourish in the Spring
•
Pelted petals can be revived,
daunting a task it is
•
First, find a new garden,
but don’t leave your vase beforehand
•
Second,
surround yourself with others
who know you’ve wilted
but aren’t afraid to help you bloom
•
Third,
recognize that there will be bugs,
but they don’t have the power
to hole punch your heart
or to sabotage your stem
•
Fourth,
nourish others
as you nourish yourself
although sometimes hard to reach,
the water will always run
•
Fifth and foremost,
recognize that even the dahlias
don’t bloom in the snow
and your golden rays are coming
so darling,
please,
let yourself sway
and let yourself glow.
.
Home is four letters with infinite meanings.
•
Home is emerald green canopies,
crisp wind
A feeling that will transcend
Flowing toes,
on the moon of my mat
Chamomile currents,
condensation covered cheeks
Waves of creation,
flooding my veins
Bashful beams
and lost inhibitions
Limbs flowing loosely, no agenda
Lace-lined freeing of the mind
Laughter bubbling from breath
•
Home is wild, conscious, and free
Because I create this home within me.
.
Candlelight isn’t an antidote to darkness,
at least some of the poison will remain.
Commit and carry on,
and one day
your blood won’t be clear of it,
but what’s pumping it will be.
.
Immerse yourself fully in the flow,
don’t adhere.
Embrace catharsis and create.
One day,
You will orchestrate symphonies
that are so vivid,
you won’t even need to listen
in order to hear them.
…to be continued.
