In her corner, she spins thick spindles of thread. A web slightly above her own head. One that she has weaved and woven Below her feet is a ditch dug, six feet deep. In her corner, Arachne sews anger and solace, Boastfulness and rudeness had become her. And the stressed woman...
I found myself Sinking beneath the floorboards While you listened in -- Taking valuable information. Furthering the reach In which your hands could go. Taking your fingers As you would mold the clay Of my terra-cotta heart. You would shape it Upward to form A cone And you would press Your thumbs into it To unearth its center. The clay spins...
And the spear left her hands As it flew across the sky Swift like Lightning lifted from within her palms. Sparks had flitted towards her feet Bouncing across the concrete. She stood firm in her stance, Having shaken down another soul. Heavy and breathy, Her heart would always race at this part, As the point...
I touched the sky. For a moment, I was floating, Had my hands up in the air. Peter picked a Peter picked a pickled Peter Pan, Got me flying like a spaceman. Can’t see his wings But I know his wingspan Can reach beyond, What any Man could, Over mountains. Over oceans. Over sand. More than any Man has done before. Cause...
I’ve got this passion, for words and colors So deep under my skin That when I find myself Running thin, My hands beg for more Consistency. In my craft. In my chore. My center, Relentless. Restless. Released. And Found Letters outbound As the rhythm Rhymes and curls like purring from the Panther’s mouth. Silks layered and built, Quilted, Ironed out, So the potency of my verbs will Hit the crowd...