Under the skin, my secrets are shadows.
I am real. I am flesh, certain.
To be open is a challenge.
I have established myself as a
Truth teller, the honesty parade, but when I pick up my naked manuscripts, I fall invalid.
Am I not ready to push the page, tear off the cover, bleed out the words?
Yes, there will be judgement, criticism, hate, but that baggage has always been apart of the operation of my experiences.
I think it’s the condition of the florist that I suffer from.
Perfection no matter how many modifications it takes is the only design for sale.
So, how to access me?
Dig up my roots, my extinction?
I must kill the appearance.
Pull back the curtains and own my truth.
This August will be fifteen years.
Fifteen years ago, I was in a Mental Hospital.
*The Deep 1953 by Jackson Pollock