A word weed, finding itself sacred, begs to overgrow and overthrow me. It's like being accosted by a thought, or worse a thought process that chokes the effervescence of creativity within me.
I don't want to be this weird. Please let me be normal. Says the word weed over and over. It tendrils and vines around my hopes, my art, my self.
In my efforts to remain unsullied, I find pruning this thought a constant. I find pulling down this thought process a necessity.
I am a song lyric. It wants me to be a sentence. I am lightning. It wants me to be a desk lamp. I am a torch. It wants me to be a match. I beg to break out of my own limitation. It begs me to be quieter, more afraid of what people will think.
In my efforts to remain unsullied, I tell myself I am worth the weeding, the pruning. I tell myself that this weed is beneath me, for all its toil.
|"Almost" © Tiffany Monique|
Satan and a Spot
Satan complained about his bad monkey
The one Ed bought him
As a Secret Santa gag gift
A running joke from East Hell
Along with the pink beanie & ball cap
Back then at a party
(We gave the ball cap to the monkey)
I told Satan I wouldn't date him
He seemed nonplussed by that
And still called me for booty at oh dark thirty
I told him to go back to East Hell
And I blocked his number
Unfriended him on Facebook
Stopped following him on Twitter
That's when Shakespeare's spot showed up
It moved in with me
And didn't do much
But look forlorn
Pining for Shakespeare
Pining for poor mad Hamlet
I was almost sad about it
Then I figured, I'd rather have the spot
Here's where you can read me:
|Yours Truly, Summer 2011|
© Tiffany Monique