My Vision's Tomb


This breathing box, this imprisoning womb,

Is my vision’s tomb.

Birthing lineal contours, knives that cut ingenuity,

Patriarchal forms, notions, popular standards strangle voice within a vast continuity.  

Exhaling vapors of bias, a restrained will locates no way.

Migrating from subject to subject, my mind is astray.

I crave to break free,

To just be.

No walls hem in a blaze of thought,

Blooms and seedlings are the only true teachers I ever got.

I wish intrinsic values would cohabit with education,

And crack through this crumbling foundation.  


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