"I am a woman;

I am not here to make you comfortable,

I am a goddess within these bones.

I am not here to please your desires...

take that responsibility on your own.


I am not a bird to be caged up,

my wings will always belong to me only,

and 

I am in control of who I choose to fly besides. 


I am a part of the ocean and it's waves...

You need the learn how to handle my currents,

and chasing winds to embrace my freedom. 


I am a woman;

My honesty might break you or raise you,

It might even let you go...


I am a woman;

I am not here to make you comfortable,

but instead challenge hearts to look within...

No one can truly posses another, but themselves. 


I want the best for human kind,

but I cannot give it to them.

...Only oneself can do that... 


Don't grip my emotions and make me believe I owe you, 

..I do not..

I will love the way I love.


I am a woman;

I am not here to make you comfortable. 

 --

I am here to speak and live my own truth. "

I Belong to Me By Cherisha Kay Norman

https://soundcloud.com/kaitisaforest-1

"1

your warmth

gave reason for the 
veins of this aspen to splinter;
the arrival of spring.

2

there is property everywhere. i see it set out
on the side of streets near trashcans and placed
in front like displays. you do not pet the neighbor’s
corgi, you do not touch your brother’s stuff. hands 
to the things you own

only you’ve rooted me and you are the fleshing field of
another's, and i can feel the hunger lock my hands when
i reach. maybe that is you.

3

the wind is your fingers. you had used them once
to pull me from the white porch-table and into a 
sea of grass.

i have scabs on my thighs from the blades. i let them brush
away until i was red and itchy. they cut back the slender 
of my legs and back inside the house you could just make

out the print of your hands.

4

here, between the hickory and hot stove of afternoon, i don’t hear you.
for once my apron is untied. for once there is no chill in the dawn,
not that i rise to feel it; there is no gust in the evening; no stench
on the way to the cellar. it has been weeks since you’ve left something
for me. you’ve swindled my words into unsettled sounds. the phone
hasn’t rung and the door has been locked and no one, not even you
has tried to pry me from this casket.

who will come to my funeral, boy?
who will tell me that my body is worthy
of marble, who will cut out my name into
the bedrock of the hills?

i lie next to the stove. it runs. smells like your collar,
heavy, chafing. i hold it in my chest until the home i let you
borrow bloats, and the rot coils upwards in sheets and on
to the floor.

5

i write on them. tell you not to worry.

i hope you do."

Picture taken by: http://stephanistone.com/
Poetry Video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gXbd3vSqV44

Smoke Trees Bongs By KaitForest

This Poet would like to stay anonymous.
Hope you enjoy this piece that is profoundly spoken.

Scream By A.S (Spoken Word)

“Dad”

Once upon a time, 
in a wondry little land, 
there wasted away a man 
who was so tired 
he couldn't keep his 
blood in his veins. 
His self-administered 
transfusions of highly 
fermented sugar water 
couldn't sustain his life 
but preserved his body 
in the old tradition of pickling 
meat. So full was he 
of flammability 
that, during non-ritual 
cremation, his 
engorged pot of belly 
burst open, sending little 
liquid slivers of flame 
dribbling from cracks 
between oven wall and door. 
All the more impressive 
was the outpouring of 
love for a hero 
who no one could know, 
a true desperado, 
a man who hadn't so 
much sold his soul 
as let it go 
slipping between his fingers, 
dripping on his shoes, 
staining the soles as 
he trekked about, 
tracking it about, ever 
talking about the life 
he'd wished he'd led 
as if he did.
.
Read more of Austin Caraway in his book "A Hand and other poems)
Contact him for inquiry!

Social Media
Follow Austin on Instagram @artistzer0
 Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/charles.austin.caraway
Also the Host of Renegade Voice Collection: https://www.facebook.com/rvcopenmic/.
.
Droplet Waves 
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Dad - Austin Caraway (Spoken Word)

Wildfire:

Nature, unlike God, does not burn her children to punish them.

The flames do not devour the innocent or the wicked for there is no judgement in the wilds of her land – there just is wild. And land.

Wildfires spark soft in the dry tinder of opportunity; they leap into existence and shout across treetops, announcing the arrival of a renewal.

But first the forest must burn.

The trees must groan and double over, quaking into charcoal and smoke while the rivers boil.

The smoke fills the air between strands of fur and feathers in all the creatures of the once green woods. It will linger for weeks and remind them to be thankful that they were not chosen to become meat falling off the bone.

As if they could trade fear and instinct for gratitude! But maybe their bones know the satisfaction of survival.

Something must survive.

If not for the buds of green that will poke through the ash in the spring, how would we know there is hope? If not for the deer to chomp the newly emerged green, how would we know our place?

Follow Tina on Instagram and Facebook: @WildfireTina
https://www.facebook.com/wildfiretina/

https://farmingthesprawl.com/

WildFire By Tina Lee Arons

Flowers

I often wonder how people are like flowers
And which of these many flowers is just like me

People adore roses
I do not. Personally, 
I see someone who proudly carries thorns is too resistant to loving

If I am a flower
I was displaced
Paired with others who make sweet fragrance fade  
Destined to wilt in this careless bouquet

Because the beauty that makes some stay
Is not enough to keep them from going away
Appearances is all they think to gain
The world sits quietly because compared to others I must be plain
Enough to pick
Enough to perfume
Enough to consume
While begging for a grave

I wonder if flowers remember their past lives
How many seeds have carried the burdens 
They knew were too heavy to be only their own

Used so many times the massacre has lost its meaning
Trapped in a display reminded by the thorns pushing into my sides
That I burden this world too much with the waste of my feelings

Who am I 
but just another planted among human beings?

Flowers By Maricela Rueda

What Rust Does

 

Look at how beautiful this rust is.

It is the color of your beard or

the leaves in fall where you're from.

 

The butterfly is credited with

metamorphosis and flight,

but rust does both and better.

It is both the act of transubstantiation

and the end result. A gust of wind

allows it to fly everywhere all

at once, like my fingers scratching

your back in circles

to help you fall asleep.

 

What I was a kid, I was told

to keep everything locked up tight.

Make your hand into a fist and put it

over your heart. That is the size of it.

 

My parents' backyard gate had the lock

on the inside, I had to reach over it

on my toes and fumble with a key.

One year, the lock rusted out,

and the gate swung freely,

back and forth, like hands

beckoning Come in, Come in.

 

I had tried to write a poem

about how much you mean,

but wrote about trash and tetanus instead.

Forgive me, I am a little rusty.

 

The first draft of this poem was called

Intimacy and was three lines only,

a series of diminishing screams:

Ahhhhhhh.

Ahhhh.

Ahhh.

 

But what I really want to say is:

I like waking up next to you,

splayed over more than my half of the bed,

out like two palms open in thanksgiving.

 

Once, I managed to wake up

before you did, and I walked out in my backyard.

I was in my bare feet, the way you warned me not to.

The sun was red, orange. I almost stepped on a nail.

I reached down and placed it

between both palms as if it were communion.

Something for mere utility was growing bark.

Something sharp was being made a tree.
Attachments area

What Rust Is By Nadia

How could I ever be homeless if the sun and the earth, the sky, the waves and ocean, the stars and the moon. The universal creator of all life is where I belong?
For those that have no shelter I am so sorry that the pain you face is neglected.
I am so sorry humanity of nature forget their responsibility is to protect you
I am so sorry Mother Earth is used as a wasteland, even though she gives so much. She gives and gives her heart out. I don't understand why we only take?
Can you blame her for her anger, her grief, her tears and storms? Why would you be surprised that sometimes she takes back what she holds dear and what we think is so precious?
Oh, it's just a part of life to end and start a new, but we ignore it all because we are so afraid of change?

The Voice of The Earth by Cherisha Kay Norman

In A Birds Time by Connor Stratman

Droplet of words become our waves, strong words are often best softly spoken.

Spoken Word accompanied by the piano playing of Cherisha Kay Norman. A community sharing their hearts through poetry and prose to bring about true human connection. To submit a recording to be featured and accompanied by music  contact: dropletwaves@gmail.com

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