text: Your flesh. The thing that holds us together. It is the story of yourself. It is the lines of your finger, you hold their stories. The words that you have, I seek. The courage you put out, I crave. It is how you thrive with others, I desire. But the layers of my flesh have grown thick, making it unimaginable to reach others. It is the matte tone of my shadowed skin that has letters within its wrinkles. The thousands of words throughout my body, hope to arise in the air. Your words defy gravity, while mine sprout and dissolve. These little buds are dying in stacks. The other flowers I have seen, have magnificent detail, all within its colors. The luminous, pristine petals that radiate light, offer beauty to others. While I am a drying bud, just waiting for the water to set me alive. The cool touch of something so light. The water is the life that purifies us. As others absorb these streams, I sit there and watch as it crashes against me. I would rather stay in the shadows of the great oceans. These waves are made by the fields of wildflowers. These are the unique voices that help the buds bloom. The sea of thoughts provide all the others with their growth. I, the dehydrated, am stuck within the white stained desert. A single flower stranded. I try my best to survive but rays of light dry me out. And I start to crumble within the heat. As I cannot hold on to my shape any longer, I turn to a little brown pile of ash. I have lots of these piles all over my flesh. They are the little doubts of myself that trail my body. My nose holds them dear as they shield my eyes. But I have evolved to use them as guidance. With the bits of my nature, I was able to grow these dots into my own creation. It does not power with water like the rest, but able to live on its own. It functions off of my power, my belief. It is built on my motivations. I can construct huge mountains. Through little bumps that line my skin, nature is able to leak throughout the hills. All the tiny pieces of glazed string come together to create crowds of people. I now have all these voice screaming. They all want to be heard. All their own thoughts. All their imperfections. They're human. I herd these populations, preparing them for the wild. The growing groups fill me. They build until I can barely contain myself. The pushing pressure is grinding trenches into me. The cracks of my desert are now huge valleys. My extending growth is peeling me open. As my layers slowly break away. My flesh stretches out, trying to keep my words in. As my thinner layer sticks to me, tiny holes break open, and few amounts of words fall out. These words surprise me. They surprise others. They soak up the air becoming balloons. The idea pops and my words linger above our heads. My letters are drizzling into peoples minds. I impacted them, I created a reaction. The mist of my words is joined by the rivers of the others. Condensation coats everyone as we stir waves, exchanging thoughts. A waterfall of words splash up upon my mind and my body shivers with a numbness. I know I created this new sea. A new map of unsearched territory. A question that expands the people's understanding of their own thoughts. The drops of words sink into my flesh. I absorb the knowledge. My flesh is hydrated. My body thirsts for more information. Bruises are being healed. These words give me strength. Cuts in my skin are being pulled back together, by the stories that created them. I am healing. The scars they leave within my flesh, hold the most letters. If only I could get my flesh to form the right words. The stories could have the power to sway minds. I can hit people with my own words. As I grow, so do my words. I let them go purposely now. I can create clouds without fear. I have grown to water others. Let the other dried blossoms take in some of the moisture. My skins punctures leak, becoming the spout of water for the others. Whenever I spill, I get the overwhelming feeling of peace. I create my own ideas. I have the ability to share them with others. I let my flesh peel open and bring emotion to others. I am hit with the fact that I affect others. I have a part in this world. The greatness my words can achieve, lift me. I am the creator of storms. The trickle of rain is taken over by the tsunami on its way. I can make things fall from the sky. I can water tons of flowers. As our flowers lay there, soaking, you question my scars. What has happened? Why are you like this? Are you okay? My water inside is shaken, for I have so much to say. My flesh has the potential to become great weights of art, but I don't want to be a burden to you. But you say it's fine. Through your words, I can feel the stillness of your sea, of your safe presence. I sense your shadow warming me. My blanket of coldness is melting. I drip away, until I have no barrier. I pour myself out. And my skin falls off. My voice. My words are free. This is my poem.