Under a Sewn Sky

’til you till

the good earth

with your bones,

you can’t tell me you’ve suffered need.

’til you fill the neon graveyards with zombie dreams

that you refuse to let die cuz they’re the only ones

you can talk to about the truth–

until then,

you can’t brag about your courage,

your faith,

your anxiety,

your redeeming God

always offering you a light.

As I heard recently,

I have a right to be angry,

but not a right to spread my anger

like somethin’ in the water–

I’m so angry

but voices say I shouldn’t even want that right,

it’s unhealthy,

tension,

it’s not joy–

right,

it’s armor

it’s ammo

it’s mi amor

left a hole in me

before I ever met him

and I sewed a stratus cloud sky to feel whole,

I need sunlight but it’s pitch black out past the storm,

a night unchanging,

so don’t talk to me about the light of your life

if you don’t want to hit my armor,

don’t blame me for hurting your ego here

“Oh, but I’m reaching out, maybe

you should reach back,”

then quit reaching out with your fist

armed and loaded with condolences,

if you wanna argue

go take a seat at the table of small talkers

before you get bruised,

because the ignorant walkers

have trod on my heart enough days

for me to take up battle training–

I’m a warrior in this dark

armed with anger

and I use it

when you fight.

So step away,

where I can talk to zombie dreams

no one likes to meet,

I can sing to the God in the clouds

for hours

hoping he can answer me before I die

or at least will do so after

and that hope is my light

that hope is my fire

that hope is my blade

and crutch catching blame,

my bones in the dirt

keep on digging and clawing

by thunder and drum,

’til salvation come

’til fingers abrade

this mad warrior’s grave