The Seraphim of Sycophants: The Courage to Change the Things I Can
Unrelenting tempests between my temples.
Maelstroms of malicious and misdirected growth in my chest.
The acidic pang of rushed intentions like burnt coffee lingering on my palate,
and a ferocious yearning like hot iron shavings in my stomach for some grand satisfaction.
Some reprieve from the repeating rants and chants of some language
I don't have the capacity to respectfully translate.
Echoing in my skull like some world-sized gong being pounded in a tempo I can't keep step with.
This is what I knew to drive my work.
This is how I understood to give of myself to create art.
This is what I thought inspiration was…
…and all it produced was a product,
not a production,
and in that case,
what's the point?
Now I'm learning to capitalize and colonize my consciousness without compromising,
learning more applications for authenticity,
recycling recompense into savage rhythms that pound into the countryside,
and beginning to terraform terrifying tar pits into flourishing bounties of abundance.
I would've never thought this power possible.
Something that can be polished.
A muscle that can be exercised.
A discipline that can be taught.
A nourishment that can be pulled from and shared.
I find myself becoming
by the intake of instructions on gaining my independence
from those judgemental, angelic trumpets, and their ideals of due process.
I find myself becoming less repulsed with the idea that I deserve to be happy.