The Sprout

I’ve been connecting and disconnecting,

To prove I am alive.

I am the seed. Art isn’t the same.

Turbulence. Sweetness. Cacophony of color meeting white canvas.

At times I am blank. At times I am the mess I try to avoid.

My limbs are extended. Fingertips brushing through tangled locs. No need for combs when you only see yourself.

People blur together in Picasso fashion.

Who are you? Why are you here?

Softly. Whispering. My edges are eroding.

Geode cracked: exposed glitter and danger.

Breaking. Black nails scratching my window in a storm. Tap, tap, tapping to the tune of the rain.

Partial effort into my partial life, this is what growth is.

Utter nonsense becoming clear only when you’ve reached the precipice.

The seed mutating into the sprout.

Welcome to the fantastic field of morning glory.


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