Being versus Becoming

Imagery of poets screaming into microphones. Telling the stories of the time they heard the warnings of dangers that lie ahead.

I now remember summertime. One text, one time to show you my horrible communication skills. A new friend gained with the newness of Spring. Months went by. I can’t catch how long on the sundial. Days and shadows got longer, but I still could spend every moment with you. I rise from my coffin and the sunlight doesn’t burn and I wish I knew then what I know now, but I am glad I didn’t. I am glad that I was able to be buried under the weight of a significant other. Signing my name in their skin and not calling it alien. Though we alienated ourself from this world, the cave we lived in together felt like extra terrain crafted from our hands. We sheltered each other understanding the significance of being extra terrestrial beings. The significance of being. The difference between what we want to be and what we were becoming. I only wish that you could come with me.

I became another poet screaming into the microphone about ripping a lover from my chest and it tears me apart knowing Adam and Eve couldn’t be if Eve remained a rib.

Mother’s Day

It took a little inspiration mostly looking at other writers I look up to, bumping trap music, and doing the usual mother’s day type family things. I went through the day today, and I took everything in. Not because I went to church this morning, or because I am in the process of being thankful (mindful) of everything around me. I took everything in because these types of holidays cause my head to spin and hyper-awareness sets in, though I never ask for it to. When it sets in, I find that I am actually thankful.

Today I spoke with my lover and friend who has had a rocky relationship with their mother for their whole life, trying not to mention that it was in fact Mother’s Day. As we texted back and forth discussing Twitter trolls and music regular conversations in our two-man circle I ran across more than a few quotes celebrating individuals who have grown beyond having the typical mother child relationship.

“and to the children

who grew up motherless,

who found the strength to become

both the lotus and the gardener

of their own hearts.

Happy mother’s day to you.”

-pavana (Mazadohta)

This one mainly stuck out to me. Mainly because I wonder what justifies a mother. Where is the line that separates the women who birth children from the mothers of this world. We have all come from a woman, yet we do not all have mothers.

Today I saw my friend continue to swallow his pride to reach out to his mother, to celebrate her after everything. Then, I remembered the times where I my mother or father or someone close to me hurt me, and I remembered what forgiveness looked like. Forgiveness is not about accepting apologies. It is the deep breath in and the exhale. It is about feeling human because being human is the thing that connects us all.

At the core of it, I feel like this whole day is worth celebrating so we can remember how human we all really are. Mothers, and women who birth humans have impacted all of our lives in some way. Shit, most the female authors that inspire me are mothers themselves. I am surrounded by both women who birth and mothers and neither needs to be discredited.

I commend the women who have children because I learn more and more everyday how hard that shit really is. I commend the people whose mothers have left scares because I see everyday how hard that shit is as well. Thank you all for growing, thank you all for trying, and thank you all for being human.

Muse

 

“Muse” by Asya Fields aka ‘Rumination’

My heart seems to constantly be drawn to your wave.

I’ve crashed against the shore many times and I no longer feel safe

-I wanna feel safe.

I wanna know that what I plant will be rooted in place.

 

Your water became too much.

 

We know water can get heavy.

Though I carried not a much lighter load when you met me.

Your job was to protect me.

 

Am I a fool for thinking I need to be protected?

We aren’t objects and I won’t objectify

-I say your brokenness made me feel rejected

 

What is love?

 

I still can’t define it for us.

I still can’t find it for us.

I still can’t build it for us.

 

Behind us is a story we’d call love if we told it.

We realized that we carry cases full of shit.

We realized we want someone to help us hold it.

 

If you up root your weeds to see your garden more clearly,

If you ask if I have the strength to carry,

If we tend to our grass.

 

Your waves can crash into my shore.

Your waves can replenish my soul.

The End of a Drought on the 5th of December 

How can I explain my certainty that the rain falls for you.

That the tears you cry not only free the rivers inside of you

but, bring life.

How can I explain that a God so big can command gentle waters

Forcing everyone to pause to meet you where you are.

The same puddles that are absolutely annoying come from the need to replenish after a drought.

The same God that left you barren

Gives life one tear at a time.

When Earth Met Water

I love your waves

Your salty waters call for dehydration yet I am refreshed when you call to my shore.

You fill the holes of my soul and speak to the roots of my soul.

We become one.

The brown muddle and cold result of earth and water.

Your waves jump to my shore over and over.

You compare me to the moon though I can’t bash your metaphors, they extend to my stubborn ground.

Reaching to your moon, but I feel closer than that.

That heartbeat.

The push and pull I can feel when you retreat.

Still your waters crash against my crystallized shore.

You leave prints and droplets of yourself as your engulfing spirit heads back to the ocean.

Together we create beautiful seashells.

The collectors delight; pearls and rare commodities.

We combine our weight.

Because we know heaviness.

And though you are less easily constrained and I know my earth can be too stubborn to take form. We see the outside of our comfort zone in comfort of each other’s arms.

We give balance to the looters hands.

Your waves continue to embrace the creation of something against the norm.

Humanities that spring from me have you rushing through their veins.

I call it nation building.

I call it sustaining.

I call it healing.

The earthquake to the hurricane.

We no longer need permission to exist because we have already been created.

I’ll watch as you majestically give the roots planted in me the power too bloom.

We will be blooming.

We will be building.

We will embrace faith in you and I .

We will be.

From Disney to Deforestation: Red Palms part 2

Never been a fairytale but things happened once upon a time

Because once there was a time where my tears only spoke for me.

There were no words, though I was not mute.

I gasped for a language you did not speak.

When I realized no was not within my grasp and there was too much air before and after the word stop.

I knew.

I longed for a home

The attack in your room I couldn’t escape the attack in a place called home

Familiar surroundings with strangers everywhere.

I filled my cup until it ran over.

It ran down my face turning into a babbling brook I needed to create.

Every time he entered my threshold.

Who was I sacrificing for?

Pleasure seeking left me barren

I watered my wasteland from one stream of tears that flowed into another.

The only fluid that drenched the landscape of the bedroom.

My self harm; represented with no visible scars.

Sacrificial intimacy on an altar that granted nothing in return.

The myre that walked into the dragon’s flames and I saw the fire in your eyes.

I saw your spirit rising

-readily rushing to conquer my barren land.

I saw my Phoenix dying

-when you said I was going to rise from the ashes of my desert wasteland.

Every time your body engulfed my lands in search of produce and pearls.

Every time I knew I had been there before.

On my stomach I stared at the floor.

How familiar the moment and the off -white carpet.

Beads of sweat landed on my back

You entered my lands

It felt like an attack.

Deep inside I cried.

Bombs went off as a genocide ran through my insides

But I heard That’s So Raven playing in the background

Or was it Lizzie McGuire

Why are theses the things I choose to inquire?

I never ask why I stared at the glow of the tv

As those sweat filled pores poured drops of you onto me.

I was too young to know the penetration of a man.

On that night it became familiar.

But they say pain is temporary and pride is forever, so I turned my pain into pleasure.

I still mistake sweat for tears used to water my lands.

I still think you want me to flourish.

I still look at your palm tree and see red stained hands.