Artist Bleeds

Battle scars bleed profusely, aches from my heart cause soul tremors

My body double bends from the hunger of poverty

I watch oppressors scrape the plate and I'm left with no appetitie except that of destruction

My heart palpitates from frustration of no pennies and I get escorted down corridors of shame with men and women dressed in blue to forever bar me from work of my own sweat

I am kicked like a dog, left to lick my own wounds, as they deliberately blind themselves through their dark hued windows. I see the corners of their mouths slightly upturned, their impudent ramblings a mockery to our art.

The cords they strike reach far deeper than their ignorant eyes, only kin knows the devastation of their in-fighting

Re a lela

Words the artist knows. We die everyday. We will die for the art that chose us.

We are not a bunch of entertainers yet we stand a circus of colourful jokers to serve their perverted satisfactions. Them that are supposed to serve us. Them that steal from us. Them that abuse us. Them that reject us. Them that sit there because of us. Them that don't care.

Battle scars bleed profusely, my heart aches with soul tremors.

I am depleted yet still grateful to be alive. One of us is dead.

One of us whom this injustice touched too.

She lays rested, her soul flies free.

Through her death, I am given hope. My spirit is renewed and I will stand tall, to be seen by those that think their mirage power can make me cower in my proud stance.

I will stand to be seen, along with many others and I will not be afraid.

I have never been afraid.

Let the cries of our hearts be heard in the spirit world where human heirarchies don't exist.

Let the cries of our hearts be heard by the spirits of all the creative powers of nature.

Wildflower 2012 (C)