Oh, My.

A Native
man sings the
language
of the Earth,
while
others
scorn
his
choice of words,
improvising his sentence structure,
and
deflowering
the
chase of his
verbs.
We’re in
a
pause of
sorts,
shifting
in between the noise
of
what we’re
feeling,
vice the chaos
that
begins
every
musical
note.

This pause.

See,
we pause
because we
don’t have access
to
our own voice,
the
lip service of sainthood,
and
the days
blend
together like
a whisper
behind
another
whisper.

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

How did we get here
if we’ve
never asked
for
directions?

How did we get
so lost
if we created
of all of the angles?

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

See,
we pause
because we
don’t have access
to
our own voice,
and
we let the
days
get away from us
like
they’re owed
to us.

Oh, my.
Oh, my.

M.C. Davis

A Little Bit Comforting

Underneath
all
of the layers,
you
exist in fragments,
falling
delicately
into
pieces
that swan
dive
into
themselves,
like Olympians
do
who
form
the
most perfect
picture
that
we both
can agree
upon.
I feel like
we’re
just
getting started,
but
all
we
need
is a little bit of
comforting
from the moments
that
truly
define us.
We’re returning
to
center,
so
let’s just
figure out
the
rest
later.

M.C. Davis

That, That, and the Third

See,
the sun never
disappears
completely,
as
the memory
of
her beautiful
sting
resonates like
stars
do
during their
courting phase,
When this
shift change
happens
between day and night,
we
find our
true
love staring back
at
us.
See,
poets don’t
get
the chance to smooth
out
these
words,
like this,
that, and the
third.
We only
get
to borrow
them
for
the
moment
that the sun
allows
it.

M.C. Davis