i'm honestly caught between murderous rage
and quiet contentment,
with subtle contempt
my fucking truth
is open and clear and contains the universe
if the mountains inside me were wilder
if the blue in the sky weren't so seductive
i'd be on my way across the horizon
biting my lip to conceal my excitement
with all this courage i've found, can i plant a flower
in this sort of soil?
the ground is calling like a grave calls ghosts
my arms are eager to carry her back
to the west coast roads
and play along the palisades of sonoma
and keep the angels second guessing
about saving me
~
copyright © john oliver westbrook
~