the ones for me are the wild ones




the ones for me are the wild ones
who like to burn at both ends

they light the way

the creative is the shadow
country where you know
you must go.
you must step outside your civilizations.
you must give up being a lady
if you are to pass through the gates

where the road winds down
to the underground.
if you are lost
a goddess will guide you.
if you eat or drink
the underground owns you.

They will ask
What are you willing to die for?
What do you love hard?
(It shows us who you are.)

confession is the coin of passage

this is your chance
to create a new mythology
tell the stories
before they tell you

love or die
there’s no other way through. click to tweet

Apr 4, 2013

7 comments · Add Yours

Love it. Loves it.


Ascendant, you are, as you descend and grow, Justine. Thoughtful. Powerful. A joy to read even on the third and fourth time through.


her words are the dare
to dive in with flair.
below the shallows that numb
stir the whispers that hum.
to resonate is to express
the very stuff you repress.
your energy to ignite
lest you wither and blight.
so take heed of justine;
she’s a badass soul’s queen.


Oh my. That made my heart race and my toes tingle.
Here is a less rhyme-y one for you.

I am alive.

I press the dust on my canvas with my finger and examine the print.
My print of unique cracks through which my ageless eyes observed the
events of my life.

The dust wakes out of its slumber and I follow its passage.
As the dust marks my past, I laugh, despair, risk, care, learn, bleed,
love, dance, scream, change, and give, striving to be more.

My fingers close around my memories and I fall into a waking dream.

The dust glides through the universe from moons to planets and up to
… oops …and around, into disks of new stars and through comet breezes.
The dust is a piece of me, or am I a piece of dust?

We fly from the ecliptic brightness, feel comforted by the local fluff,
and have a ceylon tea at the cosmic tea table with our friends from
beta Pic. They don’t laugh at my jokes but I smile anyway.

I am alive.


@Amara Graps Oh, Amara, thank you for posting that.


@Beth @Justin Lancaster @Luke Redd thank you! and thank you Luke for encouraging my behavior — I can only aspire to be a badass soul’s queen! (I think I want that on a t-shirt).


Another cool post – thanks, Justine. These kinds of messages help to keep the fires burning, which is good because the sense and sensibilty that the world demands (sometimes not unreasonably) do so much to quench the fire.

When I lived in Brazil I would walk by myself in a rain forest enclave, surrounded by gang infested slums (which is why no one would come with me). I wrote this poem about the gangs:

I am Walking Alone

Written on March 26, 1998

I am walking alone
Dangerous and wild
Danger from poison and strange diseases
Unseen men in the bush
Walking at you
With spears and balls

I am not at home
I’m in their world
I don’t speak their language
I’m alone, outnumbered
They could kill me, rob me, rape me
And no one would know

They come from their shacks
No running water in their shacks
But they see it on their TVs
And they know I have running water
They know I don’t play their game
And they know they won’t live long

No fear in their faces
They might die tonight
Police or poison or hidden knives
Makes them men before their time
All love and hate the danger
And we always feel alive


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