Moves

Despite the throes of shouldering malignant devices,

I am still fond of my resolve,

Spades of incessant onslaughts sought to drain my hope from me like blood to a grateful needle,

I have confessed my power to conquer the professedly impossible to the world,

I bested the wretched with flames and held again begotten peace in hand,

While terrors of the night rocked me in my sleep I found solace in the mental chaos and threw doubt to the dancing flames,

Hands burnt to char and wrists bruised with chain.

 

The embraces of tranquil relapse massage the trite irrationality-

Never beyond my grip of sanity,

Intelligence of oneself putting shields to the trying tyrant,

Armies in thought clashing blades with the beasts,

Possessing advances without defeat,

Again, and again into incredible escapes,

I have found my definition of what means emotionally safe,

I can no longer stand on fragile ground holding eternity in my hands,

This is a story of my triumph.

 

Days have stopped counting backwards,

The sun has stopped startling the bats,

The smell of stability no longer churns the morning stomach,

I am no longer hungry for love,

I am no longer blind to place,

I am no longer slung asunder,

And I am no longer ungrateful to God’s grace.

I am thankful.

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Broken Light

I died in my dream last night,

Not pleasantly no no not pleasantly,

I was crushed by a curse,

The weight of my culture scraped into my swollen shoulders,

The weather made it worse,

The sky would cry its stolen ice boulders hoping the ground would hurt,

The vibrations would call my knees to ground,

The sound,

Would cause my ears to ring,

The debris,

Would cause my breathing to act up and my skin to sting,

I had a memory of living toward greater means,

I wanted to thrive and yearned to be seen,

I had aspirations, motivations, and death dreams,

Every morning and every night,

I would speak to myself in the mirror trying to kindle that internal light,

When it died down the darkness stopped the beating on my chest,

I got swamped with fatigue and dived into disinterest,

Chronically depressed,

Eating beside my own shit and sleeping atop my own mess,

I could not see beyond my sight,

Every morning and every night,

I would talk to myself in a building’s window to try and rekindle that light.

 

I did not know what it meant to be spiritually blind,

I was always the only person on Earth and could not stand being around people,

I would scoff at the church steeples,

Call the church people “sheeple”,

And move on with my dirty day.

 

My people would stare at me and my beggin’ hands,

Giving pity and pennies,

Two days have passed on an empty corner and questioning faces.