Under ground

To my palm sweating, nerve crashing whore:

Storms aren’t always what they may perceived to be

A devotion your yellow aura may reach in every direction, arms spread with longitude, tangled,

Yet a bliss 

You allow yourself to reflect the exemplary diamond blue squares upon the water but never give your nails and hips permission to look at a reflection staring back at you 


You almost forget how devoted you are to becoming crestfallen 

Time washing


How devoted you have become to allowing and 

contempt you are with creating a morose version of yourself 

you shake at the very touch of your own blood

Your own warmth 

Your own path 

It seems you desire a cut cold frame of yourself to only persecute 

In the court room you are capable yet unable to pinpoint a route that you may walk in that will allow your brown laces and blue leaves to fall and hang with  relief and remedy 


To allow your eyes to reach into the soil and grasp a firm understanding of compassion for the very body that held it

To nurture a grander scheme of an orange garden you are able yet unwilling and incapable of maturing under ,at the moment 

I am fond of you 

Yet am I comfortable?

You feed me stories that ruin 

The very oil and woodlands running up into my clouds , raining back down on my toes that grow mushrooms 



My love 

It is okay to embrace warmth that must not mean you aren’t worthy of production

That must not mean you are not capable of progression

That must not mean it is a necessity to kill and cut the very limbs that were holding you up when you could not agree to be held

A sermon must not need to come in order for you to be satisfied 

The courthouse jury is on no occasion obligated nor completely understanding of your white and green forest 

The white are waiting patiently for chances that aren’t obliged by your very own palm sweat 

Harassing homeowners mistaken for trespassers 


Oh forest 

Must you not stride under the valley of impalement regarding your own powerhouse 

You would understand the glowing pink hovering right above your very atmosphere 


Spreading , stretching outwards in every direction 




Maybe in the direction of your very chest 

Maybe then your hounds won’t be heard 



This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world


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