Muddy strokes

How silly does it seem to reach as a baby to the sun

simply because it makes you

feel good.

Would it not make more sense

to befriend the dirt

Nose turning, squeal enducing

we in modernity have forgotten how good it feels

to feel the dirt between our toes in the shadow of a problem

chop them we do,

be it trees or ideas.

We still have chosen to reach for what we cant have

as the dirt browns your skins and fills your pours of ignorance

you could learn know your place.

We do not walk with gods anymore

we cannot grab stars and sit on clouds

we neither talk or learn the sounds of what it means to learn.

As it is integral for growth to have time

if we wish to walk with gods again

if we wish to paint our feet brown and eat the clouds

then we must take the soil that humbles our complex

spread it over our bodies

paying attention to the strokes of our hands

and paint ourselves out to be not what we are

but what we can be.

A muddy mess of soil that knows its own chaos

but chooses to be a master of artistry in how to become.

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