On Native American History, Cultural Appropriation and Facing Our Work Today

books
I sit and write this post from my childhood bedroom, where there are Native American literature book lining the walls of what is now my parents’ library.
I’m sure this post is preaching to the choir a bit, seeing the friends who follow my feeds – but let’s just remind everyone – it’s that time of year! Time to remind everyone in our lives about the destruction of Native communities in the Americas. To celebrate your holiday with gratitude for your loved ones, while simultaneously disassociating from the traumatic history of our very blood and soil!
“History is not the past, it is the present. We carry our history with us. We are our history.” Thank you Baldwin!
This November the Keystone oil pipeline has already leaked 210,000 gallons of oil in South Dakota into the Lake Traverse Reservation. Last month we had the “largest massacre in U.S. history” in Vegas, but what they forgot to say is that it was the largest in recent history. Least not to forget the massacres at Sand Creek and Wounded Knee.
Now let me say this I have found in the past several years of my development that my experience serves as an excellent case study of an individual and a family unit that benefits from white privilege and all the shit that it causes under a country founded on the notion of white supremacy. (Yes, thank you 2017). My personal self-work has involved healing from “whiteness” in an era where we see the dark manifestations of this around us in our everyday activities and speak.
At the same time, I am also thankful I grew up in a household where I felt educated about cultures outside of my own, where many of my peers did not have this experience whatsoever and stayed inside a very narrow bubble of understanding.This encouraged me to dutifully and in intentionally interact with people who may have lived a different experience or hold a different perspective than myself, and proceed with respect and understanding. With a hold shit ton of mistakes. I have also been encouraged to live a life of service towards others.
(Not that there are problems with that as well, but more on that at a later date)
I would like to examine myself as a case study.
I writing this objectively, the history as I remember it.
I do not claim to be an expert in identity politics, a only my experience as I see it playing out today.
Some of these experiences may be problematic. They may be totally a manifestation of human curiosity and cultural exchange in the global era. It’s perspective.
I wrote this a few weeks ago, and I’m still exploring the idea. So bear with me.
Let me see…
childhood
My father used to teach Native American literature as a high school teacher. I don’t know where his passion for it came from, but I remember participating in it. I remember hiding under a teepee in my backyard. Doing a sweat-lodge and then immediately running around in my sprinkler outside. Taking trips on the river in a canoe. I remember asking my father about the lines on the faces of the Natives in the books he had, black and white photography. “Why do they look so old?” I asked. “Those are their wisdom lines,” he said. I remember my father reading books to me before I went to sleep. There was a fictional book with Native woman protagonist who had a baby with blue eyes not long after she had a visit from a Nordic man. I started understanding how gene expression worked before I had an understanding of how babies were made.
I also remember Pocahontas coming out around 1996. Then dressing up as her for Halloween.
Let me see…
high school and college
It actually crossed my mind once as a naive freshman in college that I would “dress up like an Indian” and put on a lot of makeup. Yes. Literally, brown face. (It never happened, thank god.) I remember seeing an indie singer-song writer I knew wearing headdress at one of a show. And despite my healthy dose of literature as a child, I don’t think I read a single book about Native American history during college. Except perhaps, the Chicana writer Gloria E. Anzaldúa, who blew my mind and stole my poet’s heart, in Borderlands/La Frontera. And then, I remember a student in that class saying “I like her writing, but why does she have to be so angry?’
Let me see…
last year
I did sweat lodge again in upstate New York with one of my best friends. We had been wanting to try the experience, on the night of the full moon at that. The crowd, however, did not comprise of any Native participants or leaders. There were people from the community who had studied with Lakotas, but were not of Lakota origin themselves. There was a river, and we all felt it was too cold to jump in. It was a beautiful experience, but a few weeks later, the actual spiritual experience really hit me in the head with this insight:
Merritt, give up the yoga. Give up the Native American ritual. You need to start writing again.
And in many ways, telling me to look at, this very thing.
Let me see…
So what’s coming up now. 
I’ve participated in some spiritual communities in the past few years and here is something I am really curious about.
I don’t see an overwhelming amount of Native appropriation, although I imagine it’s in there, hiding in the dark.
I’m sort of just putting this out there as a question, from a place of curiosity for other people who may participate in other religious/spiritual offerings from cultures that have been historically and presently oppressed in the Americas.
Have you had your mini-Rachel Dolezal moment where you find yourself going to “take the ‘good’ parts, leave the rest behind”? Like, you want to participate in a Native American ceremony, but do you want the high rate of suicide and depression? Sexual assault and rape? The alcoholism? Contaminated water?  Poor rates of education for your children?
I have been writing and researching a lot about shamanism lately, from a multi-cultural perspective. While the word “shamanism” might bring up the image of someone of a Native American culture, the practice is seen all over the world. I know there is history from my own heritage in Western and Eastern Europe, and yes, I’m really sad that that’s been lost over time through my ancestry to my own present.
As I imagine, there are people in any community who know about their own culture, but who are too ashamed, scared, feeling low-self worth, to stand up and share about it.
And it gets lost…and lost…and lost…until it becomes invisible.
….
Let me see…
What would the healing of this look like from a perspective of exchange? 
We need to be in community with other communities, otherwise, I fear the resurgence of a colonial complex (” I/my ancestors took your culture, now let me teach it back you you) and we will see another disappearance of marginalized people all over the world under this umbrella of white supremacy.
A few weeks ago, I attended an online conference on called “Grounding in Life” work hosted by the modern mystic, Thomas Hübl. Through events of dialogue and exchange, he has worked at healing the Holocaust’s cultural shadows, bringing together thousands of Israelis and Germans in the process.
So now I sit wondering, who is going to bring this type of work to the Americas? When it is so very traumatized at its core over so many things.
A few things that stood out to me from his talk:
  • “The body of the human being around the world has deep scars”
  • “Whole societies are built on dark lakes of the unconscious”
  • “Stream of conscious awareness runs throughout the generations “
  • “We recreate the same structures again and again”
There’s this sort of sick pressure I find in the spiritual/self-help world of an individualistic nation that thinks you are going to accomplish all of this healing work on your own. Not really possible. Especially with the wounds we have inflicted and have to carry.
So! In gathering in “We-Spaces” (or places where there is not a ‘me’ or ‘you’ but rather a ‘we’ in the gathering) this can be accomplished:
  • “When there is a coherence and intimacy in a We-Space, big eruptions of collective unconscious comes up, waiting to come back into the conscious awareness”
  • “Coming together in intentional We pace, something about the greater field that allows us to work with material that would be overwhelming for us if we were just trying to do that on our own..”
I could see the work being much more fruitful towards a healing discussion for both parties across racial and cultural lines.

airpoem

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The House of Entheogens

house

She met him in October on the Georgetown campus. He was wearing a red a blue baseball cap. The wind blew it off and she picked it up. Returned it to him. They started talking about the weather, then science, and soon philosophy. Quickly, they became friends.

 

They spent several Sundays taking walks to the local farmer’s market to pick out apricots, then going to eat them on a blanket in the park. It was the most romantic thing she’d ever done. But they remained nothing more than friends, yet something more than casual acquaintances. After all, she had recently finished her journalism degree and worked at a restaurant part-time, and he was pursuing his Ph.D. at Georgetown. Both of them, divorced. Neither had time for dating – or at least – no desire in walking the path to another broken heart.

 

Once it got cold, he invited her to his house. When she walked in, she wondered why he had a rice cooker with aluminum foil on top. A device to make gold out of, he told her. He explained the whole process. His alchemy. She trusted him. He studied quantum mechanics after all.

 

The house was full of strange things. (No, not the kind of strange things mothers warn daughters about before they sneak away with a glass of wine and the latest E L James novel.) The kind of strange things that made her curious and ask a lot of questions.

 

In the kitchen he kept tiny bottles on the shelves, full of substances that looked like chemicals or powders. Others were full of herbs, leaves, and varieties of tea, with perhaps a few strains of medical marijuana in the mix.

 

“Entheogens,” he told her. “Meaning ‘generating the divine within.’ Or more simply put — plant medicines. They produce non-ordinary states of consciousness. People around the world use them for religious or spiritual reasons.”

 

“Oh, right,” she said. “I knew that….and what exactly do you do with them?

 

“Oh, sometimes people come to me and buy them. If enough people are interested, I’ll lead retreats where people could take the entheogens within a safe container, like a Santo Daime church, someone’s backyard in the woods, or a yoga studio.

 

There was nothing ordinary about him, she thought. And maybe that’s why she hung around.

 

 

“So….you’re dating a drug dealer?” Penelope gasped.

 

“Well, no, not exactly,” she said. “I don’t know if we’re actually ‘dating,’ we’re just friends. Anyway, he’s more of an um…urban shaman.”

 

“Is that what he calls himself, or did you just make that up right now?”

 

“I mean….I guess it’s the term he uses, but I still find it pretty fascinating.”

 

“Come on Nat,” Penelope reached out to touch her hand. “I’m worried about you.”

 

“He’s getting a Ph.D.! In quantum physics!”

 

“Hah….Denver worked as Noam Chomsky’s literary agent, and you saw how that turned out when I needed someone to drive me to Planned Parenthood last summer!”

 

“What, you prefer I date a nice normal guy? Like the guy at the coffee shop with muscular arms and the compass tattoo who talked to me about The Unbearable Lightness of Being and then asked for validation for the quality of his pictures on his Bumble profile?”

 

“No! No…that’s not what I’m saying. I just think you deserve someone who genuinely cares about you, Natalie. Drugs and things…whatever. I just don’t want to see you settling for someone who just who only cares about himself again.”

 

 

She enjoyed exploring his house. She experimented with the musical instruments he collected from his travels around the world, like the Aboriginal didgeridoo and Malian n’goni. She watered the twenty potted plants and herbs sitting by the window. She bought him a bamboo plant, a snake plant, and a bonsai tree, just to add something a little more ordinary to the most exotic mix.

 

The jars of entheogens were meticulously labeled with the common name and its psychoactive constituent:

 

Ayahuasca – Harmala alkaloids and DMT

Bolivian torch cactus – Mescaline

Fly agaric – Ibotenic acid and muscimol

Magic mushrooms – Psilocybin and psilocin

 

“When did you know you were….you know….a ‘shaman?’ ” she asked.

 

“Maybe as young as twelve,” he said, not noticing the glint of sarcasm in her voice. “I started out having out of body experiences. Lying in bed before I would fall asleep, it felt like my body was being submerged in water like I was about to cross over into spirit realm. Started perceiving what was going to happen in the future. Sometimes clairvoyant. I didn’t know what was happening to me. When one of my college professors gave me some of C. G. Jung’s literature on archetypes and the collective unconscious, some things started to make sense.”

 

He paused to take in the confused look on her face.

 

“Don’t worry,” he laughed, almost reading her mind. “I’ve looked into mental health issues – I don’t have schizophrenia, not possible. Doesn’t run in my family line. I believe my ancestors carried this knowledge, and it’s coming through me in this generational incarnation of the bloodline. And of course, Western medicine doesn’t have a name for these types of things. Hence, a lot of people do end up getting a mental health diagnosis. What I experience is just that – what I experience. Weird things happen from time to time, but it doesn’t dominate my life. And I find the plants guide me to what I need to know.”

 

Remarkably, Trevor was the most normal person she had been with, even out of her male friends. When she was with him she felt safe and calm.

 

“And how did you find the plants?” she asked.

 

“Maybe you should be asking ‘how did the plants find me’?’”

 

“Oh my friend,” she smiled and laughed. “You are such a mystery. I could write a whole book on you.”

 

“Oh? What would it be – fantasy?”

 

She blushed. Fantasies. She had a few. There was clearly some sexual tension between them, of course. But the two hadn’t had sex, or made love, or even fucked, or whatever you want to call it, in the time they had now known each other.

 

“Are you winking at me?!” she jested, then coughed. “No, you know I write nonfiction. And hard journalism.”

 

There was an awkward silence between them. She pointed to the stack of books on his table.

 

“Speaking of nonfiction, tell me more about the intelligence of plants they talk about in your books. What does it mean exactly?”

 

“Let me think…Well, you can’t compare the intelligence of plants to that of humans, exactly. It’s not as if they have a rational, thinking mind, like a brain or a computer. Scientists who study plant intelligence see plants as highly sensitive organisms – rather than passive players in their environment. Plants monitor their internal and external worlds for informational and functional shifts – like changes in soil, water, light, etc. Just like our eyes have a sensory inflow from the spectrum of light to perceive colors, plants have gates of perception that allow sensory inflow from a spectrum of what is going on around them. Then, they integrate that information into their own state of being”

 

“Yes, now, go on.”

 

“When I take the plants, they can guide my body into that same level of perception. I can’t explain it well, poems seem to do the talking for me from there.” He pulled a book off of the table and turned to a bookmarked page:

 

It is actually a kind of dreaming

And not the kind of dreaming you are thinking about either

But a different kind of dreaming entirely

(It’s like the dreaming you do when you are reading this book)

The dreaming is the central core of what this book is about

It is the kind of dreaming that Goethe was engaged in

When he learned about plant metamorphosis

And Luther Burbank when he looked deep into the plant

And saw every environment its ancestors had ever lived in

And the same kind that Barbara McClintock did

When she watched individual chromosomes in corn shift their structure

It is the same state of mind that writers enter when they create words

It is also how Gaia dreams the world into being

And is the kind of dreaming you can do, too, if you wish,

If you decide to walk through the doors of perception

And find out what is on the other side

 

 

“It’s lovely. I love it. You know I love poetry. But let’s go back to what you mentioned earlier – how DID the plants find you?”

 

“Ah! Right. Five years ago, not long after I moved to the city for grad school and was living in a condo, and I had a dream that I was wandering around this big house with secret passageways behind bookshelves, hidden staircases, and a big front yard. I felt curious and elated like I did as a child discovering life’s mysteries for the first time. The next day got a lead from someone I had met randomly at a bookstore in Adams Morgan. The price was unbeatable for the city, almost like a gift from the gods.”

 

“Yeah, really, it’s impossible to find something these days,” she commented.

 

“And the next week, I bought this house. Everything you see here, the books, the jars, the labels – all already on the shelf from the previous owner. An Italian immigrant, I heard, who had passed and left nothing to his grandchildren who all live in various parts of the country and want nothing to do with his past. The plants were the passageways waiting for me to explore their world of insight. Their potential to heal us and bring us more into our true natures.”

 

She stared at him in silence.

“Trevor, I think you’re pretty cool, you know that?”

 

He laughed and went to go prepare her a coffee. “I guess you’re not so bad either.”

As much as Natalie enjoyed hanging out with Trevor, she simply couldn’t bring herself to opening up to him intimately. Perhaps is came from her unhealed past. Her first boyfriend told her about his trips on acid at 17 and became a heroin addict by the age of 22.  In her last serious relationship before her marriage, her boyfriend smoked a joint nearly every time they saw each other, which would make him fall asleep during sex. And then in her marriage — the most disastrous of them all – her husband was a physiatrist who eventually began abusing the opioids he gave to patients and had convinced her she was both anorexic and had bipolar disorder. Neither of which were true.

 

Natalie was never sure why she attracted these types of men into her life. Aside from the usual alcohol and weed in college, she had never really taken drugs herself. Things had not been great, and her friends never knew what she saw in these men. All of them, to varying degrees, had expressed interest in social and political change, but never really seemed to put much action behind their words. Their drug use came first.

 

Trevor, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care about politics at all. When he wasn’t working with the entheogens, he put all of his energy into his studies. She knew there was something different about him. They kept their boundaries, and she let the man remain a mystery.

 

In February, Penelope and Natalie got their nails done for Valentine’s Day. She told Natalie she has a dream where she is pregnant. They stop by a drug store for the test and sure enough –

 

“I can’t believe it’s going to happen. I’m going to be a mom!”

 


TO BE CONTINUED

Coffee Date

Coffee Date
 
Sucking on this straw
And my coffee ice clinks
My new date
And I are out for drinks
He asks for a story
Before he asks for a nude
If you stick with me boy
You won’t need Pay-per View
“What happened to you?
To make you look so fucked up?”
“Dammit,” I think
“I even did my make-up!”
“Let me tell you
Last night I had one too many drinks
I ended up with my head in the toilet
At least I didn’t go for the sink!
But don’t worry
I didn’t start a fight!
I just lost my front tooth
When I tripped down a flight!”
Shit
….
..
.
Will you still love me?
Or will you get bored?
Hey  – my whole life I’ve been a whore!
According to who? According to what?
If the stars aligned – I’d be your slut.
You know – my last boyfriend – he was addicted to smut
Oh…I’m sorry! Is that gross?
Did I just reveal too much?
I know there’s a lot of ladies out there
But did I make the cut?
I have lots to say
And lots to do
I know it’s our first date
And this much is true
Baby boy
If you can listen to me
For more then five minutes
And your ball still aren’t blue
I’ll have to be honest
I think
I have to say
I’m falling
In love with you

The Whole World

Listen to a tale of how the whole world came to be
Sit on my lap and sink in close to me.
God rose at dawn, fell asleep by a well
Took man from an atom
And descended to hell
It was then that he saw
How the great sun grew bright
He put up stars in the sky
To make that thing we call “night”
With blue boomerang balls of fire in fists
Blazed rock laden coasts with the air we call “mist”
Moonbeams and sunstreams and water did not
Exsist at this moment for God had forgot
The Goddess inside and her good word delight
Spreading an unyielding love upon a vibration called fright
So they danced and they withered with some special light
Not the kind you turn on, but the kind you ignite
And they waded and walled in all of that pain
Thinking that one day, in some dimension we’d exist on this plane
of projects and problems and death’s brutal brew
so that I could sit here my dear one, and feed it to you

Sunday Mornings Are Never Really Sacred

A poem I wrote years and years ago that I am reminded of today. I like to think something really new and beautiful awakened after I wrote it. I don’t really go to church or am A practicing Christian” any longer, but I do find something wonderful about a Sunday.
.
Sunday Mornings are Never Really Sacred

Sunday mornings are
never really sacred.
You walk to church,
like your feet are carrying you there.
You can’t say why.
It just feels like something you’re supposed to do.

Minds eye takes me home
Meandering road
Pennsylvanian vistas of the
Hilltop crest past the Christmas tree farm,
Barn door tucked into valley folds of
sunlight soaked evergreen pond.
Tampered by the promise of
Lumped on fracking wells
To end this recession.

In the city you arrive at the church
and climb to the balcony.
No familiar faces greet you. The sounds of a passionate piano do not guide the way.
No tapestry of a labyrinth, or a Pentecostal dove.
No smell of flowers or wax dripping off of candles.
No need to brush legs with your neighbor while you step into the pew.
No prayers of concern, no reverend who raises his hands –
Let us stand and greet each other.

Just that little black book, where you write your name and check whether you are a member or not.
And the hymnal too. It’s the same shade of blue.
Without white walls to use as a pallet for the colors seeping out of organ pipes,
your gaze tracks the leaden frame of a stained glass window,
dodging eye contact with a painting of Christ.

Your mind drifts during the sermon,
And when the collection plate comes around you throw a dollar in,
hoping it will atone for the sin of forgetting to tip the cabbie last night.

These avoidances keep you vulnerable,
until the end of the service, when the man in front of you with a startling stare turns around and invites you downstairs for coffee.
Tells you about what a great church this is and boasts of former reverend with Princeton accolades who boosted membership with his own bare hands.

Walking back to your apartment under a grey sheet of sky
you call your father and remember that today after church
you won’t be watching red cardinals and clumsy squirrels
dancing in the big pine tree
outside your long glass window

Rather hum to yourself
Be Thou my Vision
While washing the dishes

How to Get Lit

Lately I’ve been caught in
     the right way to hold your breath, how to meditate, how to stop the mind
     the right way to cleanse your liver, what to eat, when not to eat it
     when to go to bed, how cold to make your shower, what to put in the bath, what scent to wear
     how slow to dance, how to be a woman, how not to be tamed, how to be domestic
     what gave me acne, how to make it go away
     if I start smoking weed and cigarettes does that make me okay?
     i just asked the dentist if fluoride can close my third eye
     but my gums are bleeding! oh me, oh my!
     should I drink? do my armpits stink?
     is it okay to ask out a guy? or is it better to just sit around and wonder – why?
     be with the mama moon on your period or keep the IUD?
     but hey – if you get pregnant just don’t come to me!
     must I feel guilt when the Beibes comes on?
     or can I claim Despacito as my new favorite song?
     just live life by the fly, but please – don’t cry! it makes you seem weak
     you don’t want to loose your own winning streak
     drink bottled water, or don’t, just recycle the plastic
     hey look – you’re fantastic!
     do you compost? Throw your paper away?
     would you vaccinate your kids or raise them on an apple a day?
     do you ever how your gay friends have to pray?
     when so many rights are taken away?
     by those people who can split their heart into three?
     shoo away the Mormons at their doorstep but practice their own form of polygamy?
     I’m sorry to say, as I take a breath in
     I don’t really believe in original sin
     I sort of believe we are all just fine as we are
     all chasing that wish on some shooting star
     so join me perhaps in the “the Way” if you will
     because these self-punishment talks are not really real
     between vegan and kosher and old gluten free
     there’s no right way to do it
     I’m just simply
     me

Can You Take a Wrong Turn?

I finally wrote a series of poems about my trip to New York.

—————————–

Can You Take a Wrong Turn?
  1. Wrong Train
I got on the wrong train towards East Village
And fretted – will It ever stop?
Will I ever get off?
Do you ever wonder?
How many people boarded a vessel to come here?
By choice or by brute force?
More likely, some combination of both
After hearing two girls talking about the slaves
Harvesting sugar cane in the Caribbean
You can feel that New York City
Vibrates on a level of
Everyone who has come and departed 
Looking for a better life
Only to be caged in coal mines
Profiting from industry
And the cleansing of the countryside
To think we all that we had something
Together
Fusing steel to sky
To see it all
  1. To Be Appropriate
More than death in the Civil War
Burns a cultural vapid hell 
Some envy in knowing where you come from
Some hold resentment for those who drink
From the well
Sitting on my hands and clear separation 
I’m thinking this shirt from West Africa
Fits better than yoga pants
He said, “As token of appreciation 
For more than a minute
Of your understanding.”
  1. Revolutionary Sister
The Lady Liberty in the Brooklyn Museum
By Dingha McCannon
Stands taller than 
Her green-eyed predecessor 
With bullets on her belt and flag-pole hair
Gazing in at the room of Judy Chicago’s
Goddess gathering
Suppose that no one would have invited her there 
“How do you get to Harlem?” she asked
“A-train I suppose” 
I didn’t need to know New York
To know the Duke taught me that
  1. 23 And Free
Other so-called nations don’t trace their
Generations into the pathways of ghosts
Question their DNA
We’re forced to wonder “What am I?”
Search in codes of chromosomes and hormones
Leftover from McDonald’s chicken nugget bones
For the soul only knows “I am”
And that bodies are just individual homes
  1. Bad Juice
Seems like everyone struggles with
Knowing they were born “bad”
Born a conqueror or born a slave
Born to be broken or born to be made
Thank the gods of industry for bringing me
Comfort in a mason jar of freshly pressed juice
For only ten dollars
Get a cleanse for your soccer-ball soul
Make you right, give you better eye sight
So I gave her my credit card without looking twice
  1. Prayer
Shaman says:
Oh Great Spirit
Visit me again tonight
Take me away
Heal my bones
Comfort me and remind me
No matter the sins
Of our Ancestral lands
That the end
We all go home

 

Compassion

Eating seeds of compassion
From my hands
An open pomegranate
Of thick tears
Crying for those I lost
   A soul mate
   An idea of mom and dad
   A grieving brother
   A friend I call sister
Crying for those who rule over me
    A powerful woman
    Who in passing
    Awakens me to love
    Like all of us
    She walks in her own hell
    Talking to her
    Leaves me with
    Pools of reflection
    That wash away
    My mask of denial
    “Why do you do this?”
    “Listen to us, like this?”
     She says, “Because, I care for adults here
like
     the adults here care for children.”
     How then, does the heart
     Translate those words
     To a crying lover asking
     “Why do you do this for me?”
     “Stay here with me, like this?”
     “Because, I care for my friends
like
     the children I care for every day.”
     From inside, I hear
     The voice
     Of a child
     Whispering
 tenderly
     “Actually,
Because,
     I love you.”

Femme

I came over hungry even though I already ate
I watched TV alone
Learned something about
Those indigo children on Ancient Aliens
While knowing it felt good
To be fed by your hard work and provisions
And be given to keys to your empty house

As a child of addicted healers I want to know –
Are you an addict to your own abandonment?
Or is this how you treat everyone?
Running from one thing to the next and away from
The only woman who will accept your pain
As you accept mine? ~

Dance, life’s finite dance.
I spin my web, to whatever side lands up first.
This is how I don’t go crazy

And into the forest of which I get lost
There can never be too many days
To devour their art
That explains all that is within and without me
It becomes all of my dreams
A place where all the motions go crazy

And when I feel stuck
Can’t stay living on this planet
Longing to go home
It doesn’t scare me
I feel whole at once
And ready to eat
All other things that
Just fuel my fire
Ready to pounce
And pull a trigger
Of a tragic trajectory

So I suppose that in this lifetime
I can rest upon the laurels of
Feminist mothers
To then feel, at once,
That I am one of them 

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In Your Eyes Now

I am in your eyes now
Fall out through some and valleys
Fall into that lost space
I am in your eyes now

Falling for formations
Motion set to pass
For I am in your eyes now

Rising sun and rising moon
Set apart and set too soon
I am in your eyes now

Too late to find a friend
One with motion, one with end
For I dream too much
And able to say as such
That I am in your eyes now