I am always shocked that slowly,
i’m turning into a sad flower.
the things that should keep me alive
are really the same things masterminding
my body to egress my name.
i sit out often times under the drunk clouds
counting the wild teeth of the sun,
that comes with mutilated metaphors, withered photographs & sad clapping
maybe, i shouldn’t trust anymore the strides
of my instinct—drenched specimen of me
that cannot pause the swirling toes of this pains, or probably i should learn to teach
my tongue how to glorify sadness.
Lord, will i ever embrace the testament of healing? the night comes but it leaves me with shivering arms that crucified itself to
swollen pillows like dried plantain leaves
i have seen what scars look like—something like a rusty communion cup that leaves me death in solitude with lugging memories shrugging on me like an housefly’s wing
& birth a poet into a wild prayer burning
with scattered tendrils of words that may soon evaporate to become another requiem.