I went, absorbed
Like ink upon parchment
Forged from the burning
Pit of my soul.
What if I were to
burst forth like water
Rushing out of a rock?
Watering the dried papery lands
like ink waters the grasslands?
What am I to you? Am I simply ink?
Or am I something more?
We live in a world built like a puzzle.
Pages written to appear like galaxies,
Taking in the frothy liquid of a cappuccino
As we struggle to define reality from dreams
that are morphed into literature by midnight
Through a pumpkin grown by an exhausted farmer!
Where do cold hearts go?
Do they sink like the Titanic?
Or are they the icebergs that sink ships?
Can they become warm again?
Like a frostbitten victim
Who got lost in the woods?
During the dead of winter,
Shall we be afraid of them?
No. No? Then what shall we be afraid
of when hearts are called for adventure?
Do bears quiver at the site of a gun?
Or do humans quiver more at the site of the bear?
Should we be afraid of our bleeding hearts getting cursed?
Are bleeding hearts filled with anxieties
from within a Jewish kingdom
Built to keep a secret within
not allowing mortals to penetrate its walls
until the end of times?
Or do the bleeding hearts clot
And the dripping blood ceases to drip
Like our oxygen stops when we meet Death?
Are you to be afraid of me? No. No?
Then what shall you be afraid of when
my heart melts like snow in spring?
What shall you be afraid of
when my heart that give
You a warm embrace is frosted over?
I know what keeps me from
breaking down these walls,
Unlike the Jews in the desert
I'm afraid of marching around Jericho.
I'm afraid that you
Will you think little of me-?
Like you thought ill of segregation
And transgender being allowed in schools,
Where you once learned about the constitution
Which is now demented like a sick flee
Biting humans and spreading disease.
I'm afraid of being told
to be quiet and locked up in a closet.
I'm afraid of my heart turning cold-
And my walls being broken down
With trumpets and shouts
from my anxieties within.
I do not burst forth
like water from a rock.
I do not water my dried papery lands
and the grasslands,
well, they
wither...
I know what keeps
me from breaking down
these walls-
Yet, I'm afraid,
I'm afraid that my words
are nothing more
than ink upon parchment,
Drying up and yellowing with age.
