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Small pieces of my soul float away from me slowly
The same sensation as watching waves wash up over the rocks only to once again be pulled away
(Forbidden love finds its way)
Or logs caressing the surface tension
Waiting for the moment they are set free
Freedom is a privilege we have all but earned
And maybe someday I'll learn how to wake up when the alarm sounds
But as it stands currently I am alone
(There is no reason for the monotonous buzz at six o'clock in the morning
For I should never rise before the sun)
As I lose these pieces of my own being to the wind and the waves
It reminds me that someday I too will get the sweetest taste of being without attachments
Only to be sucked back into the never ceasing cyclone of humans destruction of the eternal leafy
goddess
Humanity was never intended to bear this many chains
Surely linked, poorly synced fools
Led by heartbeats and brainwaves
My brain is a battlefield in which I cannot find safe ground
I keep trying in hopes that I might once again be able to stand on my own two feet
Or at least cease to stare at the stars
I know I will never reach
With my own hands.
By Micah DillmanBy Micah Dillman
cemented BONESFoundation cracked, memories lay in rubblecolors are overly vibrantI dream in black and white.It’s getting cold again, I lost the sweatshirt that you gave memakes me feel like maybe you cared more but weboth know that’s not true.Empty pages are hard to sit stillholding more potential than my twitching fingers, eventhe empty seat next to me looks away.Bones are leaky, roof’s dentedShingles won’t stop themselves from caving in.I forgot how to fix thingsyou still have our hammer, the one you used to tap/crack/hit/smash/break the windows of our house.I guess it’s a little hard to look back when there’s glass in your eyes.
sarah shealercemented BONES
Foundation cracked, memories lay in rubblecolors are overly vibrantI dream in black and white.It’s getting cold again, I lost the sweatshirt that you gave memakes me feel like maybe you cared more but weboth know that’s not true.Empty pages are hard to sit stillholding more potential than my twitching fingers, eventhe empty seat next to me looks away.Bones are leaky, roof’s dentedShingles won’t stop themselves from caving in.I forgot how to fix thingsyou still have our hammer, the one you used to tap/crack/hit/smash/break the windows of our house.I guess it’s a little hard to look back when there’s glass in your eyes.
sarah shealer
www.DAartscollective.com / salondbq@gmail.com
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