So i'm sitting...looking...at a screen to a world that doesn't really
exist, and i'm looking at images from a time that's now gone adrift,
into the past and floating away, i turn forward...
...face the next day...
.................embrace the next day....
...in portugal i found the oceans roar too loud for my ears, i found
myself looking up at the stars and telling a story of ancient Bear, and
i was back at the pacific with time now on my side...
...in morroco i found my self tripping over the tongues of men who
didn't understand why i, as a woman, am beautiful for more than just my
skin, because deep in beneath this i know i am more, a mother, a
goddess so to speak, and my power shines through...
...as it does in you...
...and all they can see is the flesh wound, not the true blood of my
life pouring out...fertilising the ground on which i let it fall...
...and i love you all as i cross the oceans again and i'm amongst the
city streets and winding crazy technical heart beats that pulse with
the movement on everyone's lips, a need, a yearning and a quick quick
quick...and i sit....and i order a coffee in a coffee house meant for
the people on the beat, and me, as a beat girl on the street, am turned
away with a look of disgust because i'm not quite hip enough...
...but instead of moaning and shouting and huffing...i'll pick up my
pack and keep on trekking out of the city to a new land...
...and this is the clue...the key to finding the place i call home, not to fight against people with who you can't flow...
...for i remember afterwards i found myself naked...sitting on a beach
in france...with no one around but the rocks and plants, and two bright
souls i'd met one day by chance...and this ocean did not roar but
slowly lapped at my feet and i reveled in the sunshine and life on the
street......
...life on the street, with its ups and downs, and now i'm sitting in another new town...
...new day has dawned and i'm thinking towards home...
...home a place where my feet will stand, for more than a few seconds before wanting to move on....
Beat by Beat, and Life on the Street
Fleassy McPurple is not a poet...but a girl on the Streets.