Candid Canvas


We explode
when we don't know
how to grieve.
It makes us forget
the soul behind the vowels
of our screeching moans.

But never fear!
Poetry is here!
For everyone
poetry is here to stay,
girlboss,
and slay.

When we write,
we turn around.
We start
to sleep in sounds.

How could I forget
the healing nature
of stepping
on the nests of
honeysuckling
honeycombed
motherfucking
fake honeybees?!

If you look different from everyone else
in the booth, write a poem.
If your syllables don't land
in truth, write a letter.
Write an eulogy,
a lyric long to be forgotten.
Do it for you.
Do it for me.
Do it for your trees,
but please,
don't let your hand go stiff.

Slap me if you need to.
Drown me in the spit of
the remnants of your barks,
powerful yet serene.
Shower me in the sweat
of your countless rehearsals.
Do it in the name of love.
Do it for what's raw and real.

I'm the Prima Donna,
but for you,
I'll be the holy Mary
bent on both knees,
begging for your pencil.
So you better leave Jackson Pollock 
on the surface of my skin.

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