You Make Wings Fly

Freedom

“Freedom” by Tabetha Landt

Wings don’t make you fly;
they’re useless without the mind.
Wings need you to fly.
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JHR

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Freedomination

Birdy

“The Heart of a Bird” by Colette Wirz Nauke

In your quest for freedom,
if you must fill your wings with anything,
or decorate your wings,
decorate them with feathers,
not gold.

With gold, other birds will stop by,
and admire your beauty,
and aspire to be like you,
and worship the ground beneath your feet.

The day of the storm will come,
the day of the storm is coming,
and on that day,
with extra feathers,
you will fly very quickly to safety.

The day of the storm will come,
the day of the storm is coming,
and on that day,
with golden, swollen wings,
your worshippers will leave you,
the rain will catch up with you,
and beat you till you can barely breathe.

Bitter-Sweet

How can a yang be a yin?
How?
How can a thing that ought to heal, hurt?
How can a thing that ought to help you walk,
and better still,
give you wings,
keep you in chains,
and make you weak?
How?
How can a thing that ought to give you life
take your breath?
How can a feeling
be the opposite of itself,
when unrequited?
A thing so sweet and tender,
like a newborn baby,
but strong enough
to put you in a chokehold
when you least expect it?

Love, delicate and dangerous.

Death VI: Death is the True Life

Our bodies were made out of dust;
our spirits are enclosed in dust,
and so, we’re dead,
we’re born dead,
buried in our bodies,
buried in our selves.

We don’t die forever, of course.
It only lasts for a day,
or ten years,
or fifty, or eighty, or one hundred years.
Then we become free from our graves,
our bodies;
we live forever!

Untamed

Untamed

“Tango Rouge” by Michael Escoffery

He drew closer,
and immediately, she knew who he was.

“My knight!
Does he have the shining armour?
Yes, he does!”,
she exclaimed.

She waited till he stopped the white horse,
ran to him, embraced him and kissed him.

“Take the armour off and give the sword to me.
Let’s go into the house.”

He took the armour off and gave it to her,
as well as the sword.
She let him go into the house first,
made him sit,
told him she had to go make him a meal,
went outside the house,
put the armour on,
held on to the sword,
went to the horse,
kissed her head,
sat on her back,
and rode on her into the sunset, giggling.

Freely Bound: Heroin Today, Slave Tomorrow

Ginnny

Painted by Ginny Thonson

💉💊🚬
It’s My Death’s Life:
Freedom made love to me
and it was surprisingly good,
even better than I had imagined,
so I did it again.

Again and again,
till my breasts and arms
and hips and thighs were sore.
Again and again,
I didn’t care ’cause I wanted more.
Again and again, and again,
three shots stopped being enough,
so I made it four.
Again and again and again, and again,
“I can’t do without this feeling;
it mustn’t walk out my door.”

We did it till I became paralyzed;
my thighs and trunk were stuck.
I was in complete and constant pain
from all the fruitless fuck.

Freedom didn’t untie me from the bed,
and it didn’t listen to a thing I said.
Freedom didn’t let me go;
temporary tallness didn’t let me grow.

Freedom is the strongest wind,
and no one can catch up with it.
When you think you have,
look again,
because it sheds its skin at that point,
and quickly becomes death. 

Everyone wants to own freedom
but she doesn’t want to be owned.
Freedom likes to own
just as much as she likes to disown;
she makes you a king today,
and tomorrow, gets you dethroned.

In freedom, in complete “freedom”,
“dom”(ination) comes right after “free”.

She Took the Midnight Train Going Anywhere

Doggo.jpg

…and she let out a mild giggle as she looked out the window [😂 the one on the other side of the train, smartass]. Yes! It was finally happening. 

She breathed the air in slowly, and although it was not as fresh as she had dreamt it would be, it was not that bad, plus it did not smell like human’s sweaty and dirty body, and his musty clothes. 

“A bitch has no collar. A bitch has no owner. A bitch has no name. A bitch’s not the same. A bitch has no soul. A bitch is, at last, on her own”, she muttered, before closing her eyes.

She thought about going to doggo’s house, kissing his butt and licking his ears, then lying down, with her back on the ground, and as soon as he came closer, releasing hot urine into his face. She giggled again. 

“A bitch is free. This bitch.”

Push Through

This is the legend of Gbàdà,
the favourite of his former owner.

One day, his chains were removed,
and he was declared a free man.
In excitement, he began to dance,
on the broad road by the plantation,
all day, and all night,
and he hasn’t stopped since then.
He doesn’t know where home is;
he doesn’t know what home was.

He’s been released, but he’s not free yet;
he’ll be free when he stops dancing.
The blindfold’s off but he can’t see yet;
he’ll see when he stops laughing,
when he stops crying,
when he starts moving,
when he starts trying.

Maybe one day, he’ll get home,
if he doesn’t dance himself to death.
The name “Freeman” is as bad as “Ransome”;
he needs very thorough rebirth.

Woman, One Word

No lips are lovely enough for my lips.
No words or verses are good enough
to make me feel like a woman.
No car or house is expensive enough
to fit my ego, and my dreams.
No food and promises are audible or
legible enough for my vagina and squirt.
No man is big enough for my arms;
no man is worthy enough of my love.
No hands are good enough for
my stunning breasts and thighs;
no amount of your money
is large enough for my hands.

I don’t need a man to be happy.
No man in the world.

I don’t need to be chained
by a man to be free.
No man in the world.

To be successful, I don’t need to
suck on smelly man-candy.
No man in the world.

No man is big enough for arms.
No man in the world.
No man in the world.