BRANCHED OUT ROOTS

I am Lost.

Like a needle I stand, in between stacks of hay, like many men. With runny waters washing my hands, drowning borders weakened by fences. The palms of my hand, spreading open the trees in my land, with my fingers rolled out spelling a trance.

Clocks ticking to the seconds, while minutes remain extended, to bring comfort to the soul of my friends. I stand tall before I’m weak, for that’s the order on how I should land, growing weak to the shortness of my breath.

I am smoking life off of the branches of death, holding on to the Babylon sticks without cash for weed,

that spells cigarettes over here. I’m a normal man, with that being said, I do not see myself as a noble man. My dreads don’t lock all that I’ve learned, all is just cloudy, floating mist flying from north to south, in a coordinated panning of the nodes.

Remaining deep like the words from my beak, I am paranoid, while receiving cold stares to a blog post polaroid. A thousand words to a blank page void, splinters of meaning, and roots of many senses, branching out like the markings off of an asteroid tail.

I may fall back down when I hit this land, for this tail has overspun its fate, with my energy still charged up like magnetic coils, attracting unforeseen destiny. These roots may shine, but they lay dim as a burnt-out foil, with my boots microwaved in the sun light soil.

Like coffee I’m expressed in these waters, where I mainly dwell, hot springs bubbling words of metaphors that boil. The fire in my heart burns so bright, with enough heat to melt a pot, leaving no room for steam to leave my midst.

As I only preach similes and nouns, as my speech drains from grasp. My very own thoughtful words of pride and worth, my life in the form of a speech, draining out the wisdom from my frail purple matter box, like open wells.

For yellow apple trees grow from single branches, my breed is only formed on similar pottery stands. Shaped by deformed hands to make upright vases, I stand tall bearing fruit from a tree with knowledge that may never fall.

For no blacksmith wields the strength to strike this mineral into bondage, no seed is germinated by the forgery of my skin like sand from other lands. Only a single stream from unspoken water canals, lies the nutrient bonds, that I carry without bonds that bend. However, the humidity is layered through a like the truth of fertility, in which the tree shall set its trend.

I’m watered down like the leaves on autumn sands, with trunks whistling sounds of cracks made when animal joints bend. Wild Kings barefooted to hunt the fields with no Rands. Trading linen like women using shells to weigh a feather against one’s hand, my speech remains too light to retain value, as the strands fizzle away onto hot Eastern sands.

These roots need a spark to grow high, like the branches of Marula trees, we under-stand, when soaked in the bosoms by joy, forgetting all that unfolds the hand. Longer roots seek more civilized moisture, they require kind treatment like the hands that handle oysters.

Like delicate trees, I remain so thirsty that I may have to break the land, to express my worth. Uprooting foundations to landmarks that bear the scars of our ancestors, breaking the grounds to the sands that hold the moisture of past lives, and bring the future forth. My skin is like sand overlapping the cracks of mother nature’s posture, skin glowing bright as Papaya fruits as they dangle upon their master.

My hair is natural, silky in its barren form of the old, as it twists and coils around the edges. My hair is minimal, bushy in appearance while maintaining the fold, holding secrets of what has been, and what shall come, if it may come, out of unspoken pledges. I come up to the surface to breath. Emerging from the murky waters of dusky fog clouding the brain, allowing touch to fade, but voice to speak.

With the roots lifting up the structure of my lungs, my veins swell up as the muscles expand, allowing this body to breathe some fresh air from the drops I’ve drunk. Inhaling water masqueraded as Oxygen, as it vaporizes my stress and releases me from what I am, bringing me closer to what I’m not. To go down for another sip of liquid oxygen is to appreciate life, for this body of roots needs to grow.

But branching out is my aim, branching out is the destiny on which I must follow, branching out isn't below this liquid, but above the gases that glow. Beyond this system, my roots need to spread and peak out, to gunner more radiation from a thousand suns. This tree grows with roots that are hidden beneath the dirt, to see the sun, one must forget the sensations of goosebumps on the skin.

To feel more, the pores of my skin may need to entangle life, like a calf does a cow’s breast, with the intention to nourish itself deeper within, to leave this very bare skin breathing with life, it may need to keep itself moisturized at all times, so that “her-story” may become fit, for her story to flourish this story needs to be fully fledged, enough to be complimented by a poster…

(916 Words)