You crack open my head like a coconut, snap off my wrist, and use my finger as a straw to suck out my water. My hand is a spoon to scoop out my meat. I am carved deep and empty. What remains of my shell is in love with you madly.
Soothing rains can only fill as deep as the shovel digs. Paradise is an island of beauty with winds of sorrow and bliss. Even quilts weaved from spiders and rainbows will rot when covering mold. But mold unmasked is sorrow felt deeply, waking the heart of the soul.
True conversion is not the swapping of words, the trading of dogma or the switching of casings that harden the heart. It is when the shells shatter from a swelled heart blossoming that we are truly born again. Read More: Poetry
I have become a caricature of myself. I splash paint at the mirror before me, trying to match its beauty. I am a dove gathering fallen feathers on the moss, trying to fashion wings. I am a fish wearing swim trunks.