Over cinnamon apple tea, technicolor pictures galore, she dreamed of her lover, and so much more. I was a starving artist, oil streaked carnations, arm's reach. I danced with peasants, and ate with kings. The rustle of the quail song, Pounding against the riverbed. The opera of the nightengale, to usher in a peaceful slumber. Tributes of the birds, the bees, of emptiness and the trees, and my lover's calls. I spoke layman's words but dreamt of a space at the dais of the demagogue. I used to scrawl carelessly, painted his portrait a thousand times - or maybe just his smile. I cry out in my light sleep, I tell that girl everyday, asking why God had to have His way. One day the rain fell as thick as black oil, as dark as my work-in-progress on the soil. Asking him to stay, he faded away A kiss of fog on a sunny day. I sketched him with my hands, I sculpted the wound with my feet, I molded the lust in vanilla beats. In this rocking chair, I mumbled into the night, until the voices told me to take flight. I stopped at this door, craving to paint more, of the lover I lost long ago. Over oatmeal cookies, acrylic paint galore, I lecture on my lover, and so much more.
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This tiny – but mighty – podcast examines how words on the page sound different when the creator brings the concepts to life. My goal is to showcase emerging voices representing their communities and chat with industry folks to show us how to break through and become published poets and authors.
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