But I will rise And I will return The Phoenix from the flame I have learned I will rise And you’ll see me return Being what I am There is no other Troy For me to burn
Treating
the broken the same as the whole
returning with warmth instead of the cold
Topping a mountain nudging a wall
Stacking a rockpile to counter the fall
Give in to nothing, especially this poem
even words formed from ashes
have someplace to go
For the girl that once messaged Me, to ask a simple question using approximately one thousand words…
Seems like yesterday btw , sorry to disappoint but I’m keeping question and response private.
However, I never met a more poetic soul , one that is also so enchanting and owns a spirit that grows so intensely, compassionately and passionately on a daily basis.
The honor I’ve had of making babies (creating poetry) with her has been true highlights of My Tumblr and personal experience.
So… instead of writing a birthday poem ,
I did this…
Mi más querida, más dulce, más linda
Eres la luz que me guía a través de la noche oscura
Mi confidente, mi consuelo, mi fuente más verdadero
Tu presencia en mi vida me llena de un deleite tan puro
has sostenido mi mano a través de cada tormenta
Tu atención ha reparado muchas de mis
cicatrices.
Y en tus abrazos suavecitos he encontrado mi cura, mi bálsamo
En cada palabra que dices, encuentro tanta inspiración.
Tu corazón canta con pasión, belleza y gracia.
Iluminas mi mundo con tu magnífica alma
Y en tu regalo inquebrantable, encuentro mi objetivo para siempre en intentar imitarte.
Mi más querida, más dulce, más linda
Eres la dicha que hace que valga la pena escribir mis escritos. No puedo entender cómo podría escribir sin ti
Porque en tu sonrisa más dulce he encontrado la verdadera musa de mi corazón
Feliz Cumpleaños, Te Amo
Yup , subject to translation… and less than a thousand words.
It is an interesting perspective to know that once [perhaps] I was this sole orb
belonging to some star who burned its acetylene fast through the midnight hour: an “I” built on imaginings.
Late in the realization, but assuredly nevertheless, the obvious of that era now fades from me
similarly as a life that cedes its body without tussles of anger or violence.
These days, I am more the honey eyed dream dawn relinquishing its notions to the shadows without trepidation: the sand drift piling away from expectation, derision and definition.
It is not that what I was is no longer there: this quality, but that I am less and less what I have been:
a poised enough figurine, a symbol or metaphor. Woman. Slut. Rebel. Daughter. Whore. Mother. A front door. Screen door. It’s back end. A secret compartment.
I have been fast at work, side stepping presumptions, lowering my fists; choosing to be the erosion of all internal constricts. When I look in the mirror, I do not want terror. I do not want the eyes of another to be my lens.
It turns out, I wish to be more a monsoon after a heatwave or a drought that uncovers a lost covenant with oneself.
Is it not better to lean; and lean away, and be not the arson, but the incinerated heartache, depressions, and failures that make way for tall trees, and vast fields of wildflowers [?]
Is this not freedom [?] —To be something other than I ever dared consider possible.
