Caricamento in corso...

voice

In these moments between focus, between connection and collaboration,
in these moments between effort and capacity for close– critical interpretation,
in these moments between experiences not meant for my voyeurism,
where I want to not want, but also to want everything,
 
I have weak footholds for what is rooting me to the earth.
 
If only the irresponsible act of being constantly un-rooted
allowed an abundance of creativity and pragmatic solutions,
my writing holds the spectacular emptiness of this constant disappointment,
now backlogged evidence for the necessary transparency,
 
but also for what has now been a decade of finding voice.
 
Voice
 
words
that
were
tangential -
wrecked -
unconnected
in my mind,
 
words
that
I
thought
would
never
be transcribed,
whether
by mouth
or paragraphs
coherently
organized,
 
words
erased
by a mind
collapsing
in the
aftermath,
of a mind
pathologized
by
white
supremacy,
acting
through
god’s
righteousness,
 
words
just
as
words
do
not
equal
voice,
they
have
to
be
nurtured
to
empower
one’s
truth,
and
then
then
then
then
they
stream
into
thoughts,
then
they
connect
into
community
talks,
then
they
can
playfully
skip
into
poems,
as youthful
as
they deserve,
 
these
words
now
accumulating
successful
education
and
meaningful
contextualized
learning,
 
even
then
the
erased
words
once
returned
have
to be repurposed
and
taken
back
from
the
treacherous
depths
of the
negativity
that had
rerouted
all
the circuits,
 
and it
feels
like
a race
against
time,
because
life is too
short
and
one
beautiful
brain
can only
take so much
after
a
childhood
of
being
destroyed

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