I suddenly feel incapable
of expressing my experience
There is no flow
to hand, to pen
to ink, to paper;
perhaps that’s because this is a journey of the soul.
All inspiration has
my implement of communication
exploded in my pocket without my knowing
and it’s stuck, sticky, staining
the space in my heart; I try to wipe it away
to scrub and clear and clean and pass
of furious, crushing; provocative growth.
I have sunken to the bottom of this tar-like medium.
My hands are stained
I spread it everywhere –
like ink blots meant to be deciphered
I can’t seem to
This expedition lacks structure;
open to interpretation
solidified with perspective only to reveal quicksand of thought.
Joy springs from jagged shattered pieces; jagged shattered pieces leak from peace. I
have been sheared.
My knees are laden with crystallized salt
powdery specks of white; contrast on my smooth brown skin. My bowing head heavy
bag of broken sea shells;
perhaps if I can fit the pieces together
It’ll form an unambiguous depiction of
I have not been to the beach.
My feet are stained in the decomposed
flesh of the Earth;
the cycle from birth to death and back again is apparent
with infancy tickling my toes and rootedness poking at my arches. I have bruises from
trampling on my spirit’s adolescence.
The immaterial, intangible, unexplainable
detonates, drowns, drives, and devolves;
the transmission of my Earth bound passage onto paper.