we are born of the earth carved from the womb of the mountain top — the rivers run through our veins the sun in our hearts the stars in our eyes and the moon in our souls — we are born of the earth carved from the muddy slopes in the valleys below — the wind fills our lungs as the trees sing us a song to carry us through the night — we are born of the earth carved from the womb of the mountain top © S.J.

How poetic can you be? Take a few minutes to write a short poem about what you see! Have fun and be creative! 

Soothe me my magnificent machines screaming meaning into my rage, but burn me in the spotlights of the beautiful people until only ashes turn my page. Spare me from the vestiges of ladies born bear and naked adorned with the flags of the bull being on parade. Keep my appointment for tea for two just for the insanity it took to have it made. I anoint you with swollen blisters from the sons and the doctor’s green stoned needles that tear their holes to administer your aids. We are forsaken in our deals with devils when we leave our tables with debts left unpaid. Knock down the three doors last and walk fast past all the pumpkins being smashed so you can hear the dying young sing of being good and how long time should last. You hate me, so you stray from me, when my Rammsteins have beaten your whole son to black until the seismic power of my temples lay gardens of sound to lead you back. Organize these pieces of audio my slaves and eat the little jagged pills. Now, follow me as we swallow them in the names for who you kill. Mother mary my heart will weep for you still. I’ve been folded five times, and hold seven more days from grace, for I am only like a virgin with a tiny dancer’s face. We are all windswept candles over broken handlebars. You won’t remember why you came when you’re so far away from snake bitten veins that remain close to the doors left open by people that are mainly strange. Follow me further down in my sickness and witness the demons in me in which it’s woken until the defeating sounds of my own silence violently remind me of a mind being broken. Drive it home if with only a lonely radio and one lone headlight. Moms spaghetti. GN