I declare by action
You can not call yourself a dreamer of dreams
Unless you first close your eyes to willingly sleep
To strip away reality that’s solid to your skin
Throwing blankets against the world’s forgetful sin
Standing not in the sands of the shores
But drowning in desires begging knowledge of more
You can not call yourself a writer of poems
Unless you first strip back the skin to know ‘em
Stripping down to muscle, blood, grinding bone
Becoming so grotesque, by default, displayed alone
Repulsing your own belief that you were enmeshed
Engaging your spirit fully until it bleeds through your flesh
You can not call yourself an artist of the arts
Until you’ve ripped shreds of everything you know, torn it apart.
Chopped off arms, legs, noses, fingers, and ears
Assembled them into a shape that disappears
Become a nothing awaiting rebirth to this plane
So you can become a God/dess of your own domain
I’m short of words to describe this…breathtaking!
Thank you. I know you understand. I see it in your work too.
Have a wonderful weekend Mare. Take Care.
Intense and gorgeous
annmarie
Thank you.
You’re welcome.