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I was never gifted with elegant
throes
of passion
or popular taste in fashion
my container grown kindness
came up after the
spasm of climax awakened
a seed of stillness
squashed between final papers
and torrid hormones with names of people
I’ve attached to my grasping
stress and fears of a world going awry
everyday feels like the day I could grasp
just enough
to fill the pregnant moment with
a cup of rich immersion
in this present in between breaths
I never could make real art
that fit molded limits
and I lacked the desperation of
rock and roll saints
who were filled with piss
and rage
and death came reaping anyway
the is no shame in being a different way
so instead I was the heartbreak
between child and woman
a sorrow more delicate in form
savage in nature but not self-destructive
imperfect bodhisattva
for what strips away is the dirt on my skin
revealing the red within
indian blood
sorrow is a stamp
deep inside a secret
sacred heart of tribal fire
skulls of those who came before
to guide my steps
your fears and your dreams
and that which you want to believe
are just another thing
to dissipate
instead I find the fierce glow
my coral heart knows
intimately
down on my knees this is real
knuckle to bones I echo
ancestral wisdom
so many mistakes made in fear
8 sides to every story
in these eyes of love and struggle
and this mouth now only takes
to give more than it ever ate
red white green
my native soil
citta queen
ascending
in the mire
growing down
thickening my roots
in the inner smile that never dies
like the conscious eye
that always wakes even
while asleep

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