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Small pieces of my soul float away from me slowly

The same sensation as watching waves wash up over the rocks only to once again be pulled away

(Forbidden love finds its way)

Or logs caressing the surface tension

Waiting for the moment they are set free

Freedom is a privilege we have all but earned

And maybe someday I'll learn how to wake up when the alarm sounds

But as it stands currently I am alone

(There is no reason for the monotonous buzz at six o'clock in the morning

For I should never rise before the sun)

As I lose these pieces of my own being to the wind and the waves

It reminds me that someday I too will get the sweetest taste of being without attachments

Only to be sucked back into the never ceasing cyclone of humans destruction of the eternal leafy

goddess

Humanity was never intended to bear this many chains

Surely linked, poorly synced fools

Led by heartbeats and brainwaves

My brain is a battlefield in which I cannot find safe ground

I keep trying in hopes that I might once again be able to stand on my own two feet

Or at least cease to stare at the stars

I know I will never reach

With my own hands.

By Micah DillmanBy Micah Dillman

cemented BONESFoundation cracked, memories lay in rubblecolors are overly vibrantI dream in black and white.It’s getting cold again, I lost the sweatshirt that you gave memakes me feel like maybe you cared more but weboth know that’s not true.Empty pages are hard to sit stillholding more potential than my twitching fingers, eventhe empty seat next to me looks away.Bones are leaky, roof’s dentedShingles won’t stop themselves from caving in.I forgot how to fix thingsyou still have our hammer, the one you used to tap/crack/hit/smash/break the windows of our house.I guess it’s a little hard to look back when there’s glass in your eyes.

sarah shealercemented BONES

Foundation cracked, memories lay in rubblecolors are overly vibrantI dream in black and white.It’s getting cold again, I lost the sweatshirt that you gave memakes me feel like maybe you cared more but weboth know that’s not true.Empty pages are hard to sit stillholding more potential than my twitching fingers, eventhe empty seat next to me looks away.Bones are leaky, roof’s dentedShingles won’t stop themselves from caving in.I forgot how to fix thingsyou still have our hammer, the one you used to tap/crack/hit/smash/break the windows of our house.I guess it’s a little hard to look back when there’s glass in your eyes.

sarah shealer

www.DAartscollective.com / salondbq@gmail.com