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Hmmm

Sophia.

The way her words cut through noise danced loudly in the ears of the silenced. 

She pulsed the possibility of possibility, waking up a hope that had been put to rest – nudging along the thought that life could be seen by the eyes of the mouths that don’t get to be heard.

 

Shhh don’t interrupt, such beauty in her ranting and raving to the beat of believing that we can all be free. Raw and ripped open truth smiling behind her every single syllable. 

 

She is someone who takes good care of the world and listens to its heartbeat. Not quite a doctor but she can sense that we are sick. That we’re paralyzed by the power that postures us as different. Completely blinded by the fact that we are all the same. 

 

For those that cannot speak like her, her voice is a vibration. A declaration that the time to heal, to feel, to lead with love is now. She’s sonar from the source, raising all our senses and opening our souls to the chance that one day, we’ll fly high along her grace.

 

For that, they’ll pay attention. Impatiently waiting for the secrets to be exposed in between the layers of her breath  – counting the seconds that for the first time in a long time, the miracle of life can be called back down to Earth.

Sophia
00:00 / 01:14

Life Disguised.

If we’re honest about this process

 

Life is caught in a lie

 

It’s air, disguised as water

 

Yet we fight to swim or die

 

Follow the current and hold your breath to stop from drowning

 

Air disguised as water

 

The rouse that keeps us pounding

 

The waves that’ll come crashing time and again

 

And if you don’t see them passing

Well, nice knowing you my friend

 

But Hey, It’ll be okay !

It’s just a few more strokes

 

Air disguised as water

 

It’s the twistiest hoax

 

Because wait for a second

The part that hounds us the most 

This life of constant motion

 

Just to stay afloat

 

They keep our limbs flailing to fight off the depth

 

But it’s AIR disguised as WATER

 

So we can stop to take a breath

 

We can go with the flow

 

Or aim to get high

 

Sure swim if you want

 

But know you can fuck off and fly

 

The truth comes to shore when you’re the truest to you

 

Maybe air wants to be water

 

What do you want to do?

Everything. Nothing.

We get what we want when we want it

 

We seek what we sought then we saw it

 

We like what we like so we bought it 

 

They thought what they thought so they taught it 

 

How’d we get so caught up in this vomit?

 

Like life’s not a gift blessed upon us?

 

We fill to feel full but we’re drowning  

 

To die death before life, never found it

Big Self.

Taking shrooms in the dark on a Thursday Night

 

Stoned up with my thoughts, oh it’s Wednesday that’s right

 

But oh hey 

 

It doesn’t matter cause  

All the people here tonight

Are either dead, half drunk or up for a fight

 

Oh wait 

All those people are me 

 

I guess I’m more than I see 

 

They ask me what I believe 

 

To be true

To be real

To be right 

 

They ask me about that time

On a Thursday Wednesday night 

 

Oh wait

 

They've got a lot more to say

 

I stall time to paint

 

Strokes of blue, strokes of white, beams of radiant light

I can mute the voices when I block out their sight

But they’ll speak 

 

They speak to me where I see

 

And you wouldn’t believe 

 

I see forces of you and your electric skies

 

I see your laugh I see your soul I see your big dumb smile

 

It’s you

 

Keeping all eyes on me

Remember.

Home home home

Home of the depraved

How could we not remember?

Why we all became

Eager to come down here

To feel the world and all it’s bruises

 

Flailing around with doubt for limbs

Because we let the world confuse us

 

Wake up wake up wake up 

You know what’s it like to be golden 

To set the beauty of life at your feet

Knowing love is all that needs holding

 

You are you are you are

Here for a divine of reasons

A contract made lifetimes ago

Don't punish yourself for believing

Explain It To My Baby.

They build up walls

so we tip over tables

They call them laws

but they sound like fairy fables

Can you help me I’m lost in this mad broken Earth

 

What’s it gonna cost?

To see all that it's worth

Can you

explain it to my baby?

I can’t find the words that make sense…

Will you

spell it out for her clearly? 

This mess is going over my head.

This shits confusing baby.

So men can take their nipples out but women put them away?

 

We can sell our bods for clout but not if they're willing to pay? 

 

Please someone help me out

 I have a lot of questions

 

Is anyone else feeling all of this tension?

 

Can you

explain this to my baby?

 

I can’t find the words that make sense

 

Will you

spell it out for her clearly?

 

This mess is going over my head

 

This world's confusing baby.

I'm so sorry baby.

Internal Love.

Blood soaked sheets on the bed of my brain 

 

My heart in a vice

My smile from pain 

Your tongue on my lungs

Got me feeling a way 

Like a little KIDney 

For the taste of your soul 

 

My legs no longer walk

My hands forgot to hold

My body flailing from limb to limb 

I guess this is what it's like to love

From the outside, in.

Interview With A Tea Kettle.

Hey Kettle baby won’t you spill the tea?

 

[The dill is with the pepper and the salts on her knees]

 

Tell me Kettle, sweetie what’s the hottest you’ve got?

 

[Pre-heated down below while the lid is on top]

 

But why Kettle honey do you smoke while you come?

 

[Well how else ya silly dummy would you know I was done?}

Irony.

I saw a video of a car that could change colors instantly using tiny light sensitive plastic papers

Right as I almost tripped over a child, asleep on the street

Self Worth.

Tie her up and spit at her

Toss her to the trees 

What’s a woman anyway? 

Without her mouth out on her knees?

 

Be careful what you say to her

The words in songs and stories

 

For when she starts believing them

She’s stripped of all her holy glory 

 

Let her be her

Let her be wild

We are all born to be free

 

Don’t judge her for seeing the sides of herself

The rest of the world can’t see

Not just for the she's

But the he’s, they’s, it's, and them’s

 

All down here to remember the parts of us

They want us so badly to forget

What Makes.

 

What makes a bitch rich is above politics

It’s caring and calming and not craving for shit

It’s a walk that stands still, a head that’s held high

It’s smiling at a stranger

A long kiss goodbye 

 

What makes the world cool is one simple rule

It’s being the being that you’d want being for you

It’s a kind for no reason, a respect for this Earth

It’s loving life for free

Knowing your own worth

 

Why we’re so mad is because we’re so sad

Not having the answers we all want so bad 

I’m here to tell you the answers are not what we’re missing

It’s the questions we’re asking that’ll forever keep us guessing.

From The Sky.

 

How can anything fall from the sky

If we refuse to look up or even go outside?

 

This miracle of life we live

All seen through the eyes of a screen

 

Too afraid to look away

For the fear of feeling free

 

But it’s not so scary, this world’s not all that bad

In fact it’s so fucking fascinating when you look beyond the fads

 

To the trees

To the soil

To the species 

That breathe and live amongst us

 

All down here at the same time

To show us where we really come from

Win The Game.

 

I’ve got a game, here’ hows you play

It’s called imagine you are not you for a day

Today, you’re a child

Cold, alone on the street

Nowhere to go, holed shoes on your feet

 

You’re starving and bored and missing a bath 

But you never knew good, so it’s not all that bad 

Until you catch a glimpse of a clip through a screen

They’re serving the most mouth watering meal

Your eyes ever seen

Five judgers take a fork and scoop up a taste

Then spit it back out and throw the rest away

Can you imagine? The madness that would boil your mind? 

A cold hungry child, a gluttonous mankind

The meaning of course, this games not so fun 

Especially when not one of us has won

 

Let’s do a bit better, rewrite the rules 

Teach a lesson on what it’s like to be cool 

I’ve got an idea, and think before you knock it

Let's lead with our hearts and not with our pockets

The POINT.

 

We’re here to be uncomfortable. To be misplaced in a space that’s far from home. To follow the clues of the world that surround us and find our way back to the start, that’s your heart. 

 

We’re here to be curious. To wander, love and feel the earth beneath us. Stare at a flower, swing on a swing and let the wind wash over your human form, that’s your body. 

 

We’re here to be romantic. To find passion in the gift this life could be. To get closer to the ones we recognize in the stars and vibrate the sensation of meaningful connection, that’s your soul. 

 

We’re here to be restored. To bring this experience back to the core. To press restart on a world that could have been more and strip away all we’ve built and let it become what it is, that’s your joy. >>

I Wonder.

 

I wonder, wonder, wonder 

What this world would do

If everyone, everywhere, all at once

Suddenly knew the truth

I ponder, ponder, ponder

Like all the live long days

If I'm the only one that hears from her

And listens to what she says

I wander, wander, wander

At a pace that spreads her words

So far I know I'm not alone

I've got the wind, the trees, the birds

Okay.

 

Most times I don’t walk, I buzz.

My energy is running at such a frequency that I can feel my limbs place me

into the positions they need me to be.

I’m out of control.

 

Other times I feel dumb.

My mind is working at an algorithm processing all of the possibilities

of the way this world can be.

But maybe those are just possibilities that are impossible to see.

I’m going insane.

 

Sometimes Im just like stop.

Stop fucking thinking all the fucking time about the hearts of the beings

and the he /  she /  they / them humankind,

 

But I can’t.

I can’t stop.

I can’t unsee what’s become so clear.

A world walking around like robots,  programmed to live a life of love out of fear. 

 

Fear of being judged shamed ridiculed and poked

Getting fat and making money buying things going broke

What’s your social status? What kind of people do you fuck?

Fear of making something great

And being told that it sucks

 

Fear of war and famine and control and coward and greed.

Fear of goddess women with more power than they need.

Fear of being loved. Way down deep into your core.

 

What’s so scary about being seen for who you really are?

A divinity. A saint. An angel from the stars.

You’re made from holy magic that beams even through your scars.

 

No. This time I won’t stop.

I’ll keep my heart pounding, mind shouting , body flailing at this rapid pace.

 

Doing anything to remind you how you fell from galactic grace.

 

&Next time when it gets to be a bit too much  

I’ll just grab onto my limbs for something to touch

 

I’ll take a deep breath, and with an exhale I’ll say

 

Okay.

Okay. Okay. Okay.

Boxes.

We string letters together to make us feel better about the boxes we create 

All the G-A-Y’s please step inside while the others line up straight 

 

Excuse me Miss Wie heisst du?

Who do you fuck and where are you from?

 

I can’t tell your letters based on that sweater...

and the confusion makes me feel dumb.

 

Because of your hair I bet you’re from there but

hmmm your voice is so small

 

U? K? U? S? of A? 

N-O, nein no judgment at all >

 

I just need to know what box you’re in – so I can make the call

 

Should I love you, hate you, kiss you or fight you?

L-O-L Do you know so and so from LA?

I get the sense that they’re a bit gay too, you’d get along just great. 

Well to that I say UP Yours, your questions and your boxes…

 

I broke my down long ago and now live wherever my rock is.

 

I’m from where we’re all from .. One Mother from the Stars

 

Let’s stop arranging letters and start connecting hearts.

POP.

Six pm. 

 

Or as some would clock it: 18:14 uhr -

The time on the microwave  is still blinking because

I forgot to shut the door after the last popcorn explosion with the oil on the floor. 

 

How often is one meant to clean their microwave? 

What if it’s not yours? 

 

What if the mess you made is just a metaphor for the microwave door

and the oil on the floor and this is really just a poem about things that go pop… 

 

Like my mind, my heart, my gum, my sockets …

 

*POP*

 

Here’s one – how about the fairy tale holy calamity thought bubble

I’ve carried over my head this entire existence –

 

Go to work Cindarelly

Wear this dress Cindarelly

Make the money Cindarelly

Be like the people Cindarelly

 

Only for a welcomed yet uninvited life needle to take to its underbelly and 

 

*POP*

 

Both of its sides like a Quentin Tarantino samurai scene

that makes you cringe into your blankets and cover up your eyes –

 

Sometimes I wish I was the one who had the idea for Missy Elliot

to put her famous lyric in reverse.

At Least they did what they said they were going to do and

put their thang down,  flipped it and reversed it. 

 

Those were both POP culture references

from another bubble that I’ve recently popped. 

 

The celebrities, the gossip, the riches, the poor.

The must haves and have nots and whoooo paid the price for that “high fashion” couture.

 

*POP*

 

&How about all of my exes?

Who each gets their own bubble because well sex is…

 

Pop, pop, pop and pop… I’ve got no more room for your hexes. 

 

Okay maybe sometimes popping can be fun.

Clearing away life’s things that just need to be done. 

 

A POP for racism, power and greed

Three pops for the human that takes more than it needs.

A POP for oppression, control and self-doubt

A POP for judgment… at any amount.. 

 

A pop for the thinking that you're not more than you are

 

A spiritual being living life born from the stars 

 

But what do I know, I’m tired and sore…

 

Alone cleaning the microwave oil up from the floor…

VICES.

It’s a hip hop hooray for all of my vices. 

My habits,

My kinks,

My mezcal, two ices. 

 

Espresso - three shots.

Four on a day I want to be dancing from the inside. 

When my heart wants to waltz with my lungs and tango down my spine. 

 

And if you dare put a cookie on the side of that cup, I swear I won’t ask if it’s vegan …

I’ll just shut the f^ck up.

I’ll dip that sucker in the sludge piping hot... 

 

Are we dancing yet? 

 

Okay, one more shot. 

 

And then it’s ALOHA Marijuanaaa – 

 

My baby, you come whenever you wanna.

Your leaves planted in dreams heal my traumas.

Mary Jane, Marry Me, Holy Mama. 

 

And Ya, I like to have sex – 

 

But let’s give it up once more for the Ghanja.

 

For without her, I’d be a long goner – 

 

And isn’t that why we develop these vices? 

 

To silence the thoughts in our heads that have such loud voices - 

 

To shrug off and defend our “questionable choices”. 

 

Those aren’t my eyes between your thighs in the corner of the bar.

They belong to 4 Pinot Noirs and some nicotine tar. 

 

Some other vices that help me bandage the scars. 

 

No judgment but no needles — well, maybe.

When I’m 80.

 

But for now I’ve had enough pricks.

One of the main reasons why all of my vices stick. 

 

And f^ck, I wish I were done but these vices go on and on…

 

They take me up, they take me down,

They scratch their claws into the prints of my bed sheets. 

 

They have Justin Bieber dance parties and love to live on the edge of wherever my lips meet.

 

And shit, it’s a good thing I pierced my nose…

'Cause who’s to say where else these vices may go.

But with love, I’m not complaining.

I am so thankful they exist. 

 

How else can we rid this shackled world

and fly around like birds unclipped?

 

And I know, I know all too well – addiction is a fickle bitch.

The habits we form to scratch the itch, get out of the ditch, help in a pinch… 

 

But I believe she lives on a spectrum -

Fueled less by the vices to escape and more by what we run from. 

 

These vices, they’re our armor.

What we use to make us feel good…some days, even great.   

 

They’re an excuse to use my new favourite word.

They help us “dissipate”

 

Our fears

Our feelings

Our emotions

Our grief

 

They drown out this misspent version of life we’re led to believe.

And if used wisely, I’d even argue the case…

 

That the vices we vice are just a vase.

 

Used to protect and serve all of the flowers we bloom,

when the world makes us think that there’s not enough room. 

 

Another poet, another pen, another song to sing along -

Our vices make us feel like we can belong.

 

If not just for a moment

If not just for a high

I’d rather f^ck with a vice, than f^ck this world dry.

HUBBA HUBBA.

The thing about love is, If I don’t watch my step I’ll for sure fall in it, trip over it, die for it.

This dumb fumbling heart bleeds out at least twice a month.

 

Hubba Hubba thump thump 

 

The burn starts almost instantly and in a matter of daze my bones, my loins, my fairy tale daydream stick a fork in me I’m done for delusion ignites and I’ll be slave for whatever you master.  

 

I am the perfect disaster. 

 

But likely not the type of tornado you’ve seen on the news. Moreso the type that enters your life and suddenly you’re somewhere over the rainbow in a land that looks a lot like OZ. 

 

And before you know which witch is which, I’ll distract that scarecrow brain with my wits and a tit. 

 

But First I’ll want to do your dishes – to pick off the crusty flaky bits from the concave in your spoons with my thumb or fuck it my tongue because at this point, I’d do anything to taste you. 

 

Then it’s maybe your laundry if you like with two scoops of extra softener for the shirts that have the logo near your hardened heart - I’ll fold your pants too because I’m eager to be in them and I’ll sift my hands through your pockets pretending change is the only thing I’m looking for.

 

I’ll be a whore for your chores.  

 

I’ll wanna go down – to your basement and organize the dusty boxes where you keep your unfinished journals with the reminisce of your unfinished love affairs. 

 

The ones that paved the piss yellow brick road for me.

 

Then once you trust me with your daily duties I’ll move onto the daily DO MEs

 

I won’t be shy or polite about asking to intertwine our limbs in a dirty little game called where you end and I begin. I don’t just do yoga for the exercise. 

 

We can practice our geometry and you can use your protractor to draw me in any shape you like. A triangle, a trapezoid, a rhombus. Math can be fun hey. And rhombus is a sexy word to say.  And while we’re at it I’ll calculate all the ways you can break me and I’ll perfect the algorithm that will lead to our demise. 

 

But not before a couple hundred more times. 

 

We’ll have a series of little jokes and watch a series of silly shows. We’ll bond over characters we’ll pretend to know. I’ll cook for you and we’ll play house for a while. Maybe I’ll even meet your mom – or at least get her to say “Who’s that” when mY voice fills the background of your weekly phone calls. 

 

I’ll wonder how you’ll respond and think it’s cute you call your mom. I’ll stay a bit longer…

 

But then one day when you’re feeling safe I’ll stare down the barrels of your bullet hole eyes wondering who shot you and why you never took the time to bandage up the wounds. Not that I’m anyone to judge. If the only relief from grief was stitches and a body cast, I’d never leave the hospital. 

 

But I’ll penalize you for it anyway and like a magician on a mission I'll plot my final act, Tying a straightjacket around my heart so your access becomes worthless without the key. 

 

My phone died, the internet's weak, the cow jumped over the moon.

It doesn’t matter because it will all be over soon. 

 

My big finale is that I’ll resent you. Start to blame you for the dark parts of me you brought to light

until it becomes so unbearable that I’ll want to inject your same dish soap into my veins if it means scrubbing me clean of every molecule that recognizes you. 

 

I’ll singe off the prints from the tips of my fingers

if it disguises the person that used to enjoy sharing your breath.

 

I’m not well…

 

Two shots of cyanide for the memories.

 

A puff of methane for the jokes. 

 

But before I go and off myself over the emotions you brew…

 

This bleeding heart goes thump thump again

Hubba Hubba

Who are you?

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