Aiming for a creative life

I Am Santo

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The break crash whim. The startle. Wind whistle fuckery and a turned cheek to another direction. Hailstorm loss, dented metal and titanium weakness. Bent soul, crooked and weighted, impatient, unfathomable, unwelcome. You’re singing in the breeze, excuses floating past now into yesterday, words finding no mooring like a dingy in a hurricane, gale-blasted and sinking, overcome, drawn down into a heart too weak to allow dreams to float. Sunk in resentment. Drowning in a lack of veracity and staring up into watercolor skies strewn above by the shaking wrist of tomorrow; the desire for your welcome. Hungry for the next flood, willing the pieces across the board with wine-spilled thought and a tickled tongue, such fancy pronouncements bid attention, longing. But as soon as sun cracks cloud, drought ensues, an arid fester, charcoal heart bursting into carcinogenic indecision and wavering conclusions, tissue paper caught in a maelstrom of indifference. You’ll follow through with kindness because soil craves your honor. But demands steal the sky, rob worth and any growth is looted dawns, larceny angering heavens; a weed tangled in a scream for freedom. Disallow that salivating cancer, build immunity and greet the pastel wisdom of invitation to bask in your fire-light. Brilliant fusion. Fist smash lust. Inebriant coercion and flushed chest heaving. Go because another word spill will uncover the relics of something long buried that belongs in the untouched shale of then, not now. Not ever.


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