Spoken word poem, set to the tune of:
No matter how many chronicles we’ve written, the breath given to the depths of us can’t be spoken.
Speak less, and yet the poet goes on.
How many poems are written to the speechless?
How many poems are written in the name of words that can’t be forgotten?
Words that can’t make do or make bear, what’s bittersweet about being here,
being Time, living fear, living lie, living second guesses – secondary questions asked to primary projects.
And yet, we mourn the mornings that have died.
We mourn the mornings that sink with the rising tied.
We mourn the mornings still denied.
We mourn genocide.
We mourn more than morning allows times for, so we mourn less with our eyes.
We mourn more in our less distinguished pride, left dangling in the dark on starlit nights like we were falling stars in the sky.
We’ve learned hard ways to cry.
Perspectives.
I need two tickets to Resurrection
and an asinine attachment to naivety,
depleted neurochemistry,
mistreated over centuries,
and still writing dignity over death in our sentences.
Perspectives.
There were still promises we were meaning to make.
There were still meanings we were meaning to shake.
So we mourn the loss of stolen Time.
We mourn the loss of You and I.
We Need New Perspectives.
I wrote this poem as letter to Sierra
I made a promise not to promise it’ll get better
I wrote this knowing I don’t nothing ’bout forever
But I’m happy we’re still in this thing together
Life is hard and I can’t promise it’ll get better
But I promise we’ll get through this shit together
Life is hard and I can’t promise it’ll get better
But I promise we’ll get through this shit together.
Mumble Theory 