It could be syrup, from bushes of berry bunches. It could be the dressing from the fridge. (Red, crusting it dries from the air.) It could be the acrylic paint, the colorful palette holds more than the typical as it holds a broad spectrum.
It could be life and loathing, from experience and despair. It could be save-it-alls or none-at- alls, from pricking pistons and plastic veins. It could be gasoline that circulates through a pumping piston and ignites a charge inside myself.
It could be the culmination of regret, simple yet misunderstood. From many moments of self doubt and jealousy the momentum that was lost from restrain. On top of the tile was a tool placed at the end, as a finishing touch to the canvas of the floor.
It could be spilled relief expanding in contrast shared with all things living
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I am from swing sets From mud pies and a pumpkin patch I am from the lake at the cabin (teal, reflecting the sun's radiance and warmth) I am from the driveway hoop The weeping willows Where imagination ran away Like Mustangs free
I am from cigarettes and screaming From hiding in stillness I'm from the ignorant and shallow Hearts From never-good-enough and do-it-again I'm from a bastard with a Cracked soul And the strength to forgive
I am from firewood and creaking shack Pine needles and trimmed grass From the dim glow of the dying sunlight As I laid myself to sleep alone The pen was my escape Flowing over every page My best friend A world of its own
I am a champion -- Bruised but not defeated -- And I will carry on
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
Inside you are birds, Chirping with fear and delight. Inside you is the filth over black drapes (Grey, clinging it tasted like death.) Inside you is the blue grass the Minnesota Dandelions whose golden tops you collect as if they were unknown.
Inside you is bread and seagulls, from Duluth and Lutsen. Inside you is mostly flannel and worn shoes, from relatives and strangers. Inside you are the lines Et tu, Brutus? and hope you can save yourself.
Inside you are leaves and seeds, scattered amongst the yard, on the patio broken from the weather the fence you shut to keep them out. In the fire was an empty box gasping dark thoughts, a hand of found faces to threaten within your dreams.
Inside you are those moments -- sprouting, fading, holding -- never far from the house.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I am made out of clay, Forming into shapes and sizes. I am made from discipline. (Perseverance, passion insulating potential.) I am made out of sound, the calming harmonies whose cool waves wash over me always revealing the unknown.
I am made out of authors, and words etched into stone. I am made out of scrapes and broken bones, out of gates and mysterious thrones. I am made out of stop and start and fight and heart and several remedies for myself.
I am made out of affable province that showed me how to roam here and there keeping balance and wisdom afloat as my iniquities fell by the wayside. In my closet was a chest Spitting out trophies, a parcel of plaguing memories to cast away my inhibitions.
I fall not far from this mirror -- reflecting the past, present, future -- reasons for being here, or anywhere.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I belong to music, enriching my spirit from within. I belong to words echoing from every angle (peaceful, cascading like a tropical waterfall) I belong to innocent children, footsteps pounding up and down the stairs, distant laughs from a bedroom a far.
I belong to a dock with traffic in the rear fish jumping lines spinning. I belong to crisp air engulfing my lungs and, endless dirt roads to rejuvenate my soul. I belong to uncertainty of life through imbalance and stress with hope to can find a cure.
I belong to pain and agony spilled through windshields and gray metal bars over open caskets filled with tears lost hope and my wife holds me while I lay my head to res. While minutes feel like hours days turn to months, sorrow sobbing pleas sent to Heaven with hurt.
Now I belong to God -- holding, loving, embracing -- the old, new me.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I'm driving far away, away from what I loved. I'm driving into the darkness never before seen. (empty, meaningless far far away from here.) I'm driving to somewhere seen before, the great city the lights shine in the distance as if I were miles away.
I'm driving fast and straight, down the long highway. I'm driving with an empty space next to me, wishing that they would have come. I'm driving from beginning highway to end street rough and ridged then somewhere in the distance I see.
I'm driving for my own sake, not for anyone else's fued. It's what I want whether it's right or wrong. The drowsyness keeps me awake at all times. In the back sat boxes empty and deep not very deep, once there was stuff inside but now there sits nothing
I'm driving but I'm there finally after th is time I can sit here resting
**Inspired by "Where I'm fro
I am from the Grand Staff, from treble clef and bass clef. I am from the strings wound tightly on a guitar, (Bronze, glossed like tired eyes) I am from the keys on a piano, the sharps and flats that make the scales odd and interesting, genuine but not unknown.
I'm from sand and waves, from salt water and fresh water. I'm from breezy plains and calm neighborhoods, from urban city and rural town. I'm from streets and hills and home where I can be myself.
I'm from generosity and ignorance, love and care. From snack-time with Grandma to long road trips with dad. At the cabin was a boat which we'd take at night to look at the sky and share of our dreams.
I am from memories -- most of them forgotten -- defining my being.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
This is my note, my pencil and looseleaf paper. This is my dust on the shelves. (gray, still, it feels like sand.) This is my cool breeze, the Seattle wind whose ocean rimmed scent I long for as if I had once known.
This is my soda and coffee cup, my Christ and Clause. This is my all-in-one and hand-me-down, my warm up and cool off. This is my thou shalt not curse with a cottomouth tongue and three persons I can't conceive as one.
This is my Douglas County, college football and iced cakes. This is my inheritance passed down from my grandfather the loss my mother sent me away with. In my closet is a metaphor for lost second chances, a blur of faded lines to focus on when I'm ready.
This is my era -- too broad for me to impact -- segment -- pushed in betwen the lines.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I am one, made of many. I am the sum of parts, so beautiful, yet seemingly insignificant.
I am connected to these parts, and they, to themselves. I am the space between them, of which there seems so much.
I am the light, and the dark. I am the visible, and the invisible, heard, and unheard. I am adored, and I am ignored.
I am omniscient, but can never truly understand, my self, my part, the whole, the one, as long as I remain ignorant.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" by George Ella Lyon
I’m going for respect, For recognition and family upbringing. A place where everybody knows my name. (Home, away from my physical home). I’m going far from Minneapolis Minnesota, Land of 10,000 lakes who’ve raised and taught me everything now I can teacj the next.
I’m going fully suited up, boots laced and tied. Going to a place where no man has gone be- Fore. Head high and 10 toes down following down the pathe of still waters towards my future. holding presents I received in the past.
I’m going carrying the name Jackson, Heavy on my right shoulder. Leaning hard to the left so I wont fall praying that God will protect me against my friends because I can handle my enemies. Away I go, avoiding falling asleep because I might drift beneath my dreams.
I’m going to leave now – Leave me to myself – Tell you about my goals later.
**Inspired by "Where I'm from" By George Ella Lyon
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