Has it ever occurred to you that we're living on borrowed time? Our bones are borrowed. Our blood. Our smiles, our speech. All of these things we consider to be "I" have been lent to us for this brief life to do what we can. We can use it gently, or run it into the ground; at the end of the day, we must return it... to... [blank].
I've been obsessing over this thought lately. That none of these moments are really mine, not the laughter, not the tears, not the triumphs, not the fears. It is precious because I want to keep it all so badly, while I simultaneously know I cannot.
So I write to make sense of it all: the ugly, the beautiful, the brutal, the sweet, the confounding, the inspiring.
And here is my offering this Sunday night. As always, I would love to get feedback. Unusual for me, I wrote this as a rap, or spoken word piece. So read it with rhythm...
"Committed"
My art is so real it
drips red on the pavement
it pulls the lovers close
as they lay in the basement
it takes flight, flap and soar
to uncover what the cave meant
it slides up your thighs
despite your slick disguise
canopies fall, poles down
one thousand truths rent
threw the spear too far
illusion/reality bent
cuz the truth don't mind
if you're ill, well, or wise
it don't care if you're
desperate to stop the cries
of the baby in your arms
you created despite
not knowing what your spite
and love's all about
it don't care if you're dying
a slow death, it don't mind
it'll wait at your feet
it's got all the time
it don't matter if you fight it
with crosses and prayers
the truth is the art
that cuts through all your cares
it might let you be
if you feed it an arm
but your bloody stump
is drained
and your body's still warm
it don't care if you
sink into flowers or silk
it holds your limbs by a string
while feeding you honey and milk
don't look for answers here
because you asked the wrong question
but there's no lies in the bones
of this borrowed skeleton.
~Poonam Desai (4/9/2016)
And just for fun, a picture from NOLA a few months back.
I've been obsessing over this thought lately. That none of these moments are really mine, not the laughter, not the tears, not the triumphs, not the fears. It is precious because I want to keep it all so badly, while I simultaneously know I cannot.
So I write to make sense of it all: the ugly, the beautiful, the brutal, the sweet, the confounding, the inspiring.
And here is my offering this Sunday night. As always, I would love to get feedback. Unusual for me, I wrote this as a rap, or spoken word piece. So read it with rhythm...
"Committed"
My art is so real it
drips red on the pavement
it pulls the lovers close
as they lay in the basement
it takes flight, flap and soar
to uncover what the cave meant
it slides up your thighs
despite your slick disguise
canopies fall, poles down
one thousand truths rent
threw the spear too far
illusion/reality bent
cuz the truth don't mind
if you're ill, well, or wise
it don't care if you're
desperate to stop the cries
of the baby in your arms
you created despite
not knowing what your spite
and love's all about
it don't care if you're dying
a slow death, it don't mind
it'll wait at your feet
it's got all the time
it don't matter if you fight it
with crosses and prayers
the truth is the art
that cuts through all your cares
it might let you be
if you feed it an arm
but your bloody stump
is drained
and your body's still warm
it don't care if you
sink into flowers or silk
it holds your limbs by a string
while feeding you honey and milk
don't look for answers here
because you asked the wrong question
but there's no lies in the bones
of this borrowed skeleton.
~Poonam Desai (4/9/2016)
And just for fun, a picture from NOLA a few months back.
"Peace is" (Poonam Desai, 2/11/2016)
Comments
Post a Comment