Find Meaning in Self

To the wind,
How it moves me (the leaves and branches of a dead tree).

Do you sing along with petals of the daisies,
Do you whistle and chime the metal that dangles from my tree?

Little a chance you gave me,
To feel whole once again,
She told me,
Didn't she?

What's that?
You say,
No you see the moon is bright tonight and the rain not brittle in my fingers.

Oh again!
You said,
Well yes of course again,
But oh boy the waves they crash into walls of mountains,
So will I.

Oh but where I had once stood fractured from the poorly nutritioned sediment,
I now reach deep into the rocks and grab hold of diamonds,
They are my eyes (the way they twinkle in the night to lend an eye to a blind man stumbling),
And so too are you blind!

Blind to not see what I have done with the spare time you offered,
With the absence of darkness and oxygen in my brain,
I learned to absorb the water from the rock and pull from thin air my food,
My joy,
My love,
My honor,
And my self-worship.

You cannot stand to rip free even the bare of the fucking leaves (which are green by now I'm sure),
from my limbering arms so tedious and warm,
For they GRASP the blue blood that seeps into veins made of green and darkest of greys,
To give light,
To my once believed nonexistent eyes.

Oh but bestow to me the blood I own!
You may say,
But all is well,
And right,
For the future remains in the heel of my foot dug so deep into my veins as to pierce my heart.

But the blood is good,
Though I had been taught of it's evil and wicked ways,
And it beats,
My heart.

Travel to the edge of a cliff and gaze off it to the waves that writhe below,
See if you can find meaning in the movements in sync with the fingers of a minute hand.

For I have.



Originally Written 1/15/17


◄ Reminiscent

Good ►


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adrian metcalf

Mon 4th Dec 2017 07:39

So this is super fascinating to me and I thought anyone that reads his might enjoy it as well...

But when I wrote this I had literally no idea what it meant. After editing it feel it’s a commentary on my father, however when I wrote it I was just coming out of a relationship which is really interesting.

It seems that in many cases with art the artist is not the conscious person you know but rather their subconscious. I’m guessing that’s why people say that art “just happens”.

Anyways, it’s an interesting thought process to me and figured someone at some point may enjoy it as well. Cheers!

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