I stop when I hear you stutter,
Then create beats.
It’s time this secret unfolds again,
Because I keep asking it to speak to me.
Whispers have become conversations that plague every minute,
And my fingers can’t find the time to keep up.
Spiritually spitting rhymes,
Has become an obsession.
It’s dripping a mess down my back,
Making me forget where I am for a minute.
It is an art.
Balancing the chaos.
When we create a love affair with our souls,
We learn to listen.
If we ask,
It can show us how to question all that we have learned.
As well as how to think for ourselves;
Empower us as a collective;
This love that is so dear keeps calling me.
I don’t know why I try to escape its embrace.
When the flights of images fancy me so much,
I can’t help but think what it still means,
In that love.
It’s still all romance
Set beneath a cold setting.
Seems like a dream to feel my heart go warm.
That means more than just words.
The Sacred Emerges
They say when you awaken it’s called the scent of the wise.
I open my eyes to see the color of saffron and my nose is tickled by the shift in the wind. It is definitely something to make my tights choke my legs into not breathing.
Seeing between and awakening to the scent is quite peculiar, but I don’t flinch. I hike them higher and sift through the fragrant pages of letters I’ve written laced with love. These letters drenched with romance I must desperately share.
For to fall in love with oneself is a true romance…whose scent is all that I ache for now. Truly, a passion to adore.
Loving oneself and marking your soul with affections is alot harder than you might think. Standing there, back then, I grasp and cling to shreds of what I have been given and straighten my corset. Tight enough so that my heart sits revealing itself to everyone.
I’m shy and scared to feel, because “feeling” is something different. Something I must retrain myself to do, as it’s never helped me before. With layers exposed, I feel vulnerable to all. But I do it, because my curiosity of what will happen next is something good.
Something good provoking many other layers to transform into a new birth. Which I’m sure will most definitely be a a new heart. A heart that feels loved, and feels its worth. To feel love, it remembers itself, rebuilding its cracks.
The language of my soul spins beats like that of an orchestra. Here I am with my pencil at my fingertips, and my eyes glued shut with a fine sap scented with bourbon rose sketching again. As if I can’t stop this incessant madness, this love of words on paper.
Today, the adored poet Mirabai speaks to me. She swings her hips behind my closed eyes. I see her smile up at me and she winks, as her sweet hips sway and she keeps telling me to sing, and romance myself.
And so, I decorate myself with fuschia pink petals, wrapping my wrists with lace to remind me, then watch as the rain drops pellets on the pages, and close my diary.
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