Flesh vs. Spirit

Photo by Tanja Heffner on Unsplash

My anxiety is loud

but so is this victory

so is this freedom

so is this awakening.

My mind is a Warzone

where black and white spirits roam

both demons and angels alike

where sorrow and freedom are both soldiers

fighting for the opportunity to possess me

to take up space

that is the residence

of my conscious.

My body is a battlefield

that society tries to sacrifice to its traditions

and I try not to bleed out

on people who never cut me

since I am both spiritual

and fleshly

like you

So I shackle myself to my integrity

being both in chains and free

enslaved to nothing but truth

a special kind of liberation

submitted

as I strive to overcome this war

between my flesh

and my spirit.

The Right Poem

When the right poem is born it is all feeling. Taste and touch and nourishment. All heart and aching and lifting. Poetry is a revolution with a profound sense of strength. When the right poem arrives I notice it instantly. It is all moving like earthquakes so powerful that it breaks down mental barriers and knocks ignorance off Richer Scales. The right poem is not merely the ability to paint pictures with words. The right poem is a full manifestation of the heart. A complete contextualizing of the soul. The right poem is my entire body into words. Every piece of flesh, every tingling nerve. A spiritual essence poured out on the page.

The Heart of Dreams

Source: Wallpapersinhq
Source: Wallpapersinhq

Pay attention to your dreams, for they say the subconscious never sleeps. That eyelids bow the soul’s curtsy, a closed curtain for the eyeballs that awaken when the body shuts down. Bodies that die so that the mind may live. Your eyes move freely in the darkness. The random eye movement of fluttering skin in the heart of dreams. The spirit waits for the exhaustion of the soul so that it may move about amid visions we tell when we wake up. The subconscious self that stutters while we sleep, taking notes and collecting memories from the storage space of the mind. Peeling back the deception of the beautifully crafted language we birth when the spirit’s not present. Showing them for the nightmares they are when masks fall, and demons manifest our truths in the depths of our minds and in the visions that awaken when eyelids bow in the heart of dreams.

Spirit Words

 

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Stretch your thoughts forward with much care. Hold them in your mind with the fragility of a newborn’s bones and then unfold them from your tongue like ancient scrolls . Let them drip oxygen on the page so that you leave the post just as pure as it was before your spirit left it’s imprint in our souls. Let your words stain peace that I may inhale joy that cuts through bone and marrow. For sticks and stones may break bones but deadly is the venom of a tasteless word. How dull is the stare of a ball pointed pen bleeding empty? Who knew words were spiritual; the invisible breath of life to nostril. There is nothing more powerful than a righteous tone with angels wings let loose in its time. Pen to paper or voice to air. Choose your spirit words carefully. It wouldn’t make sense leaving trails of bodies hanging on top blog post walls.

The Gentle Rain

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I am from the earth. My skin soft like the soil. I watch as the rain slithers from the sky like perspiration from my brow. It brings with it the taste of tranquility, and the smell of clean. I let the water kiss the palms of my hands and muddy itself into the soil of my skin. Perhaps it will seek to filter my thoughts and purify my soul as it does the air. The winds are soft and polite this warm and yet cool morning; a mixture of bleak sunshine and splashes of gray. I hope to accomplish what needs to be done. Who knows, I may just give birth to flowers this day, a rose or perhaps a lily or two, with the gentle rain.