I was painted purple. I had no paint.
It does not matter which; my blood will be spilled.
Emaciated fingers accuse my ‘cake-crumbed mouth’.
Cracked swollen feet kick my calloused weary hands.
These tears and blood belong to no one.
I… we have been spilled, choked lifeless, hopeless!
I see you,
We hear you,
You say… if they shall not be mine then they shall neither be yours!
A month to 40 and I am crying out for a new way, a new life, a new world.
A month to 40 and the whisper of a new life calls to me. I feel the gentle brush of the soft lips of change happen on my soul; life stirs in me and awakens love in me, a month to 40.
I question my existence, no longer worried about tomorrow, or wondering what happened to yesterday. Wanting to live for today. My mind longs for freedom, routines have torn my soul to pieces, my heart can no longer bear the rising tides of worldly demands and my heart cries out, a month to 40.
A month to 40 and I am crying out for a new way, a new life, a new world. A new love calls to me, it calls to me on a blowing wind, refreshes my spirit with the aroma of a fresh breeze, gently kisses my mind, whispering secrets of change, a month to 40 and I am reborn.