Tag Archives: Freedom

Freedom 

I write to be free: of an emotion, a thought, a burden, a moment, a dream
I write to be free. So, when the moment takes me and the words spill onto the page or vomit, as the case may be, I am writing to cast off some shuddering menace, some heavy joy, or philosophical nonsensical battle with my soul.

But I write.

And I don’t need approval. I don’t need the clapping and hand back smacking. What I do need is you to hear me, even when my words fail, when my sentences are constructed in a meandering emotionally coded language of my heart, I need you to hear me. If you can’t, if you can’t look and agree to see first the pick you up carry your broken ass to the 7-11 across town to get the cigarettes you need or the tickets to that show sold out on Thursday and realize that yeah, sometimes I didn’t put the words in the order considered perfect
but I showed up…

So, I don’t need you and you don’t need me because I am not the candle giving you warmth. I must be the match burning down your house and I want be that.

I have never wanted to be that.

So go. I give you permission to leave. I give myself the same. Like a ticket to a train south bound to warmer climes take the vibe and the ride and just go.

You know, I told myself long ago, I would say no. Then returned for more of the same. I left thinking how could I change? What could I do? So, determined, I put on new shoes and a new hat, covered my heart in the plastic wrap of preservation to hopefully deliver the left overs of a worn out line better.

and I failed.

However, I showed up

Some how I think that should’ve mattered. But here is the thing – it doesn’t matter to everyone. Sometimes the showing up just means you accept you might get shot and when you put that shit in park, you put the target on your soul to be delivered every blow – whether it was yours earned or not. So why keep showing up?

That is what I am wondering. Why keep showing up, when showing up means I have brought my best albeit flawed self and know it is the monster under your bed. And that when I speak, “I didn’t mean that” you hear “you’re a liar” and believe me.

I write to be free. And now maybe I can be free of you and you me. 

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Calm is for sleeping

I see signs all the time that say to keep calm
but I want to be wild, unruly, and free.
I want to run with my arms open wide to let the universe in.
I want to sing at the top of my lungs till the clouds shiver with rain and the flowers take up my chorus.
I want to laugh so loud the stones at my feet roll in joyous ecstatic elation.
I want to write boldly, paint broadly, create till my hands are bruised with hope filled expectation.
I want to be wild, unruly, and free.

Calm is for sleeping.

Puzzle Pieces

What sound do your dreams make
when you are reaching out
screaming up to the universe?
Mine resonate in pixel-ate-it color
searching to put the puzzle
of our rainbow colored world back together
after unknown fists have sought
fought and thieved away the pieces…
slowly away.

Freedom comes to the Bold

I want to take a moment to remind people of something important:

Freedom does not come because it is desired. It does not come because it is asked. It does not come because a people think it should. It comes when demand it, stand up for it, and voices lift up behind it. Then, and only then, when all those for it come together and in a resounding voice ring it out – will Freedom come to rest upon the hearts of those enslaved by the forces of discrimination, degredation, demoralization, defamation and destruction. Only then. SO

BE BOLD! STAND BOLDLY! SPEAK BOLDLY! BE BOLD!

Love after war

War.
Guns blaze.
fire scorching
the heat of democracy
and the desires of
freedom desperate
souls.
battles
wage.
in streets
behind cascading stones
while drones
fly over head
searching
with electronic eyes
for an enemy.
Innocence
loses
its way
as the young get younger
pick up swords
instead of plays and
I have to wonder
can there ever be
love after war.
Will the season
of our discontent
making life to suffer
unrelent
-ing horrors of
our mistakes
ever be redeemed
in the waking
forgetfulness
of morning?
Will the
blood on our hands
the impression of death
stamped into the sand
of our march
ever fade?

Will rich men in
high towers
ever stop laying
waste
to poor men
with elongating hours
will the
other reverse course
and demand discourse?
can we ever meet in the middle
can we
ever
find
love after war.

Every day the news
paper dreams in smoke
lay plain the drama of the day
Men dragged from homes
Women stripped and shorn
Children’s hands bound
with the weapons of
war
de constructing truth
de constructing lives
and
all I want to do is
hold my hand to my head
close my eyes
reading no more
because
I’m not so sure
its possible to
have
love after war.