The game of life is a hard one.
You must login to vote
We learn to cry like the clouds
and bleed like the Mississippi,
but in the end we always lose.
Miscarried babies turn into children,
we're still growing in the womb.
White knuckles gripping Mother,
her entrails pulling and snapping like roots in
"To be born is to die," an idea that floats some
where beyond memory,
like the ringing of silence.
I opened my my mind like a wound.
I tore apart m heavy lids,
they clung together as if they were soul mates.
I looked around with eyes that were sore,
and sticky like cane syrup.
I can no longer see the womb,
but the smell is strong like the moss and algae
in the marsh,
or cemetary dirt left in my nose.
Mother's dreams still run over me,
like an early morning fog feeding my chills.
Penetrating and drenching me,
creeping into my marrow like tangles of humidity
and swamp gas.
I was born a dead dreamer.
I awoke with startled ghosts clouding my mind.
I found that the life I had was a dreamer's
I let the dream go.
It felt like my skin was loosening from the
Truth be realized,
I am dead beyond a living imagination