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be:free

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My lovely friend Carly (AKA @tiny.writer) the the most amazing spoken word poet. Her performances always leave me in tears, and feel like a reflection of my own life. So, when I was creating the {be:free} collection, and contemplating all the things in my life that made me feel free (or not so free) I knew a poem was the perfect way to convey how I was feeling - and that Carly would be the perfect person to scoop those thoughts out of my head. I hope you shed a few happy tears.  

 

{Elate be:free}

 

I closed my eyes to hear my own breath.

It had grown quiet for so many years.

It wasn’t until I could hear the waves’ own heartbreak
that I could tell that these whispers
were really wake-up calls.
The ocean wanted me to breathe.
It summoned new life into my stale roots.
Each break was a reflection,

where I’d stolen time and hidden it in my soul --

each conversation where I’d become

politely silenced

so you’d be pleased.

From my knees,
I watched each moment play out patiently.
And freedom bubbled on the inside,
ever so quietly.

It percolated through my insides,
crashing up and down my spine.

Knocking on my living room walls,
where I’d danced naked
and re-lived every conversation
where I wish I would have said
“in your dreams, kid.”

I wish I could tell you
I wrote this for you, purely.
I wrote it for me.
A reminder,
knowing that I could never make you truly feel anything.

 

But I pray you hear that whisper
(whether you are busy
            or disheveled,

            dancing alone or
            arms thrown around a lover.
whether you are
            ashamed or
            vibrant).

My prayer is that when you hear that whisper,
you drag it through echoes
like nails on a chalkboard
and let it become noisy,
irresistible

to an against-the-grain touch.
Jagged and awkward,

your freedom becomes reckless,
your ideas are wild abundance.

And you.

 

I should be so lucky as to paint you with every colour.
Your freedom looks like nothing before it:
I never could have planned this for you.
It was the way the wind called,

And how the ocean howled,
and the way in which you
            ferociously,
                        nakedly,
                                    imperfectly
                                                            chose it.

 

@tiny.writer

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