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Sierra Flowers Poem
Trapped in layers of sin, ambiguity, and shame.
The man walks the loud, but still, lonely streets of the city, searching for something that he does not know. The discarded man. A man standing in the wilderness, screaming out shrieks of pain that are lost in translation. The man fears he is alone. The man stands alone, unable to move, stunned into silence, fearful of speaking. The discarded man dances into each puff and exhale of tobacco. Lost in each swig of beer. The discarded man knows of God, but is still fearful to call on his name. The discarded man walks and drinks in solitude till his feet bleed and he cannot sober up. He does not address his emotional pain. From negligence, this pain takes on a physical being. A being that looks like him, walks like him, speaks like him. The discarded man cannot differ between the being and himself, so they walk as one.
Copyright © Sierra Flowers | Year Posted 2025
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Sierra Flowers Poem
I fear that I have become incredibly dull: a knife that has only learned to cut carrots, a pen that does not get replaced, only its ink replenished, a piece of paper balled up and thrown away, a word only repeated to deaf ears that would rather not acknowledge its sanctity. I have become a husk of a person. I have become an empty vessel of human emotion. This is what becomes of a person when all they have to turn to to feed their mind is a screen flashing images, showing people how to react, an ongoing assortment of empty media. I wish to spend my days in the bosom of the Earth, admiring all she has to offer. I wish to swim in her lakes, sit on her shores, blow her dandelions, feel her grass beneath my body and fingertips, feel her rain on my face, and breathe in burning humidity from her everleasting body. I wish my life could be spent in the trees of her soul. If life didn’t ask so much of our labor, I would be in the Earth's core rummaging around for the parts we cannot see in the 9-5 workdays. Unfortunately, though, in this economy, I cannot spend my life as a writer or focus on painting my way through the world, spending every waking moment trying to express every part of my being, so subsequently, I will spend my days as a working man. I will become “The other woman” of my own life, constantly trying to achieve what looks like everything I want to become. Taking on the persona of the woman who has it.
Copyright © Sierra Flowers | Year Posted 2026
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Sierra Flowers Poem
My body has grown warm with anguish. The continuous rush of warm, hot, debilitating shame. Shame for letting my sanctity become poisoned. The slime of my ever crossing innocence and growing pains overlap into a sea of the insides of all the world has to offer me, as though the organs of 100 washed-up whales has swallowed me whole and began to mourn the person I would have been if I were free. My flesh becomes green signifying the decay of my premature body.
Copyright © Sierra Flowers | Year Posted 2026
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