I have been weaving since the day I was born-
weaving in and out of myself
trying to knot together any stands I could find,
jumping into hammocks,
the suspension never felt more comforting.
Failure is not an option.
Hard concrete is a reality
for those who walk a thin rope.
The sound of smashing,
of bodies becoming a million pieces echoes
while society tells me I need to clean my act up.
Put myself together.
Brother, could you lend me some glue
or a manual on how to build a net?
No one taught me that in school.
Survival is instinctual, but damn does society have a way of tearing it away from people
until they are lost,
or confused about why animals lick their wounds,
howl at the moon,
or want to fuck like it's wet wet spring.
I have to hold onto that.
So, how about we show this circus what it's really like to live
not in a book,
not in an idea or a theory of what we all should be doing.
that is for the people with nets
who try and burn them so they can get some different perspective.
I am lieing face down in some of the hardest ground I ever landed,
slithering like a snake-child,
I managed to curl up in myself
and begin building.
If you want to sit there on top of your tight rope towers and mock the muddy words that I constructed from the empty dirt,
then come down here and speak to me about it. I am vomiting up your high language
because it's not settling in my stomach,