I knocked its door for answers
It was blocked
Camouflage in color green, Nature.
Sweat coming down my back
It's not coffee sweet
It's coffee bitter
Hot, cinnamon smell
Burning my flesh.
The wait
The deaths
The fear masticating each second
Pushing empty beds
Letting the sun set on my face
A heart deprived of blood.
If the birds could only sing instead of dropping on the floor
Feathers everywhere.
It set me on trial
It pointed at clarity
And then at my eyes
Search for a brown sky
Nothing my lips sing will move your star.
YOU ARE READING
The path to self
PoetryThese poems are about self ownership. Rising above limitations by diving inside the ocean of the psych and meeting with source; the self.
