The Butterflies

I am sick of words like

‘yummy’ and

‘juicy’ to describe a

spirituality to heal me

if I am standing in the middle

of a fire, looking for healing

remedies for heat…

“Get out!”

Where are the truth tellers,

grab ’em by the ballbusters,

pussy wearers,

don’t take no shit,

don’t take no money,

street warriors

that only stand for the well-being

of the soul?

Bald men in suits

make money

make money

make money

leeching it out of

the purebred

muscle of the soul,

potential that millions

of people have sold.

We built cages

around our broken hearts,

filled them with cement,

locked the doors.

How many lovers

are willing to chip away

at the concrete remains?

And can love even save us

if it is not our own?

Can we be save-able?

Am I save-able?

Do I need to be saved?

Death is the great

equalizer.

Zoom in. Scale down.

What really matters?

 

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