Thought of the word wild didn't bring in poetry. Rather I wanted to pull out my skin, rip it apart and just clench onto my veins. The green they portray on the outside would actually be bloody blessed red.
What is it about a word that makes us write on it? Our thoughts most often I suppose. So what are my thoughts on wild?
To be precise everything contradicting to what the word sounds. Wild sounds like a roar, looks like a lion and feels like the deepest stare of a leopard. But then to me, it's the scented flowers that are rare and precious. It's the unknown and unheard melodies that we get to experience once in a lifetime. It's the rawness in the nature that's often secluded from life, but that which has a life beyond the machines we have become. It is that which makes action not mundane and words not shallow.
Wild is something that we all have, the rawest of our being is wild and the world tames us. Maybe for the bliss of eternity to enjoy rather than the temporal tales that we exist as.
Wild is now when I simply scribble yet scream the thoughts when I undress them here as they are when I try to fight the conflicts and ignore the teasing of my own heart and just paint here.
she left her coffin alive and profound.
A dunk in the river of consciousness,
A scrub by the branches of patience.
Knelt in the mud of madness
Submitted her being to the Divine.
A ritual to live again, but not survive.
A promise to be human, and not ignorant.
World of Words . 2018 Copyright. All rights reserved. hfcoco
