Bowie's Poetry Debut

August 29, 2015 Candace Morris 0 Comments


Put words in the cup.
I'm gonna drink words
That will be yummy.

-BAM

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Me: observable, repeatable, proven

August 17, 2015 Candace Morris 0 Comments





I carry your old voices in my head.
I crush under your disapproving nods as I write.
I stagger at your taciturn judgement.
If you are from my childhood, if you are from my blood, if you've ever occupied my affection, I hold your words, thoughts, spirits in my pen.
For better, or worse, or offence,
but I've got to kick you out.

You can stick to your own thoughts, thank you very much.
I'm tired of sharing my headspace with yours.

I've justified my silence because:
I'm petrified at being responsible for your feelings of loss because you believe I'll burn in hell for eternity.
I don't want to make you feel like a failure because you invested answers into me that were enough for you, but not for me.
I want to have proven your hateful parents wrong for making you break up with me because they thought my sister was a whore.
I'm scared shitless that anything I say will give you another excuse to leave me crying in the streets, chasing after your love.
I don't want to upset your comfortable Sundays at church by making you question your god.
I don't want to hurt you or incite any conflict.

But at it's alchemical essence, this is all just pride and fear - not true sympathetic consideration for you.
I just want to control what you think of me.

And it's not possible.
Just trying has been killing my muse.

You are far away from truly knowing me.
Why do I care what you think when
The She who Creates
is standing right in front of me.
A terrible beauty.

Why forsake her for tired lies?

I'm so scared of sounding stupid.
I don't want to be discredited or lose your respect.
But I'm finally
FINALLY
caring less about what you think of me.

Instead, I'm drilling into my head a new question.
What do I think of me?
What do I think of me?
What do I think of me.

If I say it enough,
repeat, meditate, repeat,
Maybe I can drown out your mantras.

I'm scared to wear new definitions or use buzz words like 'energy healing' or 'witch' because I don't want you to do
what I would do
to you:
Shrug off what I do not know
And say ignorance
or sin.


I refuse to deny confessing and writing about the interplay of science and magic that fills my head these days. I need to say it. I daresay, you need to hear it.

I've always chosen to believe
(or was I told what to believe? Maybe just made to think I'd had a choice [as insidious patriarchy is wont to do])
that coincidence is random,
that chance, arbitrary.
That observable, repeatable, proven fact is the only truth worth comforting yourself with.
But this is odd
because even the man-god I used to pretend existed wouldn't have passed that test.

And I suppose,
in the end,
he
didn't.
Actually.

But now. Now what if I can choose just as freely to believeimagine something else.
What if belief is just a grown up word for pretending?

And what if I decide that every single atom, cell, energy force, will, and spirit does move by some unnameable power.

And scarier yet,
What if that power
is
me.

But I'm holding it by the throat?
Because I'm scared of you?
No. I've used you as an excuse too long for
an unforgivable murder of self.

I'm going to resuscitate.
You are welcome to watch.

But quiet yourself
As you are in the presence of something truly godly.

crm

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