This is the post excerpt.
The origin of this blog is in my desire to share more of my work and motivate future writings by doing so. Please feel comfortable commenting criticism or reaching out to me to ask for elaboration on my work posted here. I am entirely open to it; clarity is one of my weakest categories in writing.
June 24, 2017
The rain turns up sweet, and musky familiarity.
It reeks of the inside of your closet; the smell of your oldest and heaviest coats.
Drops weep down the trees.
Their fragile drop run raggedly across the abrasive bark.
Into the matted, grassy head of the earth.
They comb the earth’s hairs into unison direction with their runoffs; which collect to a rushed and rippled tide.
It is all painted in deep and genuine notes of color.
June 3nd, 2017
Mindless babbles; spit bubbles and convulsing shutters.
I was once myself and then; never again.
Aching limbs; no thoughts.
Sweet smelling candles.
Burning flesh.
Sweat and muffled mumbles.
Wide eyed: a teary puppet.
Love me.
Stinging warmth on the sides of my cheeks.
Raw lips; tremble.
Wrap me in approval.
And yell at me until I am raw.
Coddle me then.
When I am nothing- sing sweetly.
Until your words are more cleansing than the deepest rain; if you do, I will flower.
Thrive: on your most rotten words.
I am bone wrapped in skin.
With miles and miles and miles of veins.
And the throbbing inside of those veins are every feeling that connects me to this earth.
Like ivy, they span the roads of this world.
Grounding their presence into the soil, up the skyscrapers, down beneath the tree roots.
Gritting their branching against constant molestation of company.
My mind is young and sweet, softer than silk and unwrinkled by time but it can unravel to drap all there is.
It is the flooring beneath my feet, the grass on which I walk, the pigmentation of a poppy it is calm and ancient.
It is more than mine.
Inside my skin, and bones, and miles and miles and miles of veins my body knows the process to life.
We all do.
Before now our first lovers slept outside, their hair matted with the earth and bodies intertwined for survival; for the future that is me.
However; a drop of my consciousness can kneed one’s heart into stiff retirement.
My viens can leach the nutrients from this earth and it’s molesters.
What are we to be so godly? To fabricate our dreams?
To move from sleeping beneath the stars to under falsely illuminated and meticulously crafted caves.
We are human.
And to be human is to be powerfully and vulnerably exposed.
Two weeks in the back of an A.C. deprived semi-truck.
Transporting hundreds of pounds in spraypainted, pesticide-reeking daffodils from Cali..
We made our way East. Dropping off at a monster-industrial warehouse in Utah.
Which looked much like an flat-topped-one-story apartment complex for giant roaches on wheels.
I watched as the steel roaches thrusted themselves out of their compartment garages.
Into the flat, arid heat of summer Utah.
Their mouths spitting up oil and corporal stomaches grumbling for profit.
They drove to every convient store within a 150 mile radius.
Throwing off gumbo packages of wrapped affection to the local middle man of a big-brand-name store.
He arranged them in their plastic containers.
Until frustrated men came and paid $3 a pop to satisfy their unhappy wives with a media-installed desire for tangible love.
The doors to my mind are not open or closed. They are a soft, vanilla white.
Finished with brass handles and rubber edges.
That if they might close; no sound would escape.
Hollowly, wind flows through my eyes to flutter the pool of papers inside my mind’s brick walls.
Written on those free pages are headings of the dates; followed by black boxes of ink which run top to bottom.
Each day that I have been; my mind has scribbled in an incoherent language of pheromones to make sense of my association with all I was born into.
They were all, flat roofs.
Corn fields.
Winding labyrinths of mouse traps,
breeding off copies of government certified fulfillment,
like fax machines spit out wasted trees.
Dead end businesses with little names;
stuck in the back of warehouses, with offices too small to afford real secretaries.
They were feeding off of skyscrapers,
who had a monopoly on the idealistic, reformed, definition of “prosperity.”
And “wealth.”
And “happiness.”
And “purpose.”
And those skyscrapers plastered their processed philosophy on billboards,
littering the highways across country.
Propaganda? Advertisement that turned into invisible, stage four cancer for mankind.
Dominating, with dead, industrial steel, and the luring false motive of unity.
I live there.
When I was an adolescent, in a four by four cabinet,
Tucked away from the capitalist’s eye by my mother,
Who nursed me with at the breast of promise.
Promise, which died at the old age of childhood.
Smothered.
By air too thick with copy and pasted opinions, viewed on billboards around country.
Now, having been freed from the creative intuitiveness of childhood,
and branded by the money man, I make my way to a skyscraper.
To submit to the sadism of a the bleach white four by four cubical,
And refine my memory of the world’s labyrinth;
while trying to deal with my generation’s anxiety.
They filled out a plastic slate with my thumbprint
and signed me up for the backwards circuses, made for submissive, desperate men.
sophiapoetryandetcetera 