Indigo Ink.

The thoughts that flow, like ink of indigo.

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As a child, my mother never understood
Why I hated wearing shoes;
Why I said my feet belonged to the mud,
And my hands belonged to the creeks.

When I was twelve my brother and I
Found a hawk with a broken wing,
And I cried for weeks thinking about the tragedy
Of having bones so broken
You can’t get off the ground anymore.

And isn’t that the risk of being wild?
That one day, something inside you could break;
That maybe one day someone
Could clip your wings, and fill your bones
With sand and logic.

There used to be nights when
I’d hang out the passenger seat of cars
Going 60 miles per hour down the freeway.
And I’m more afraid of beds & hearts
Than I am of empty parking lots
And dark alleys.

My feet belong to the mud,
And my hands belong to the creeks.
The rest of me belongs to the sky;
To the ocean; to your mouth;
To your hands and to the sun.

I think I’m nervous to turn the rest of myself
Over to your heart because
I’ve learned a lot about freedom
And how it tastes;
I’ve learned that you can die a thousand deaths,
And keep on living;
I’ve learned that you can have wings
And stay on the ground.
for those who were born in the sky & died on the ground. (jl)