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Cynthia Morales - Poet


Cynthia resides in the Seattle, Washington area, where she practices as a licensed mental health therapist and writes poetry in her spare time. She began writing poetry when she was an adolescent, and since then has moved her private thoughts to a public space. Writing has always been a healing experience for her, which gives a voice to things that are difficult to articulate otherwise. Her personal mission is to promote vulnerability through her writing and self-discovery in the process.  Cynthia enjoys hiking, yoga, tending to plants, reading, social justice work, and music.

You can follow Cynthia on Instagram @cmorpoetry


“When I sit down to write, I’m also uncovering things about myself and the world around me. It’s very similar to the process of therapy, which I not only practice but also personally engage in as well. By the time I get to the end of a session, or in this case a piece of writing, I’m often surprised by what I’ve discovered about myself and/or the world around me. I know I’ve allowed myself to be vulnerable and work toward a meaningful and unknown truth when I’ve experienced the element of surprise.”

 

burning man

third degree burns - 

are you solid, liquid, gas, plasma?

what does a burning man feel like

when you get too close?

it’s third degree frostbite -

you hope they thaw so you can, too.

they burn so bright,

you look away and see blue-sky sprites,

they dance and taunt you.

you forget what the burn feels like,

but you come back for more.

a burning man never disintegrates, 

an eternal effigy to their self,

misrepresentative,

smoke clouds obscure them.

you will know a burning man

when you walk away tinged

and covered in the soot,

you will recall the smells

and the mirage,

and the burns will remind you

that a burning man 

burns alone.


 

undiscovering

you’re receding in the distance,

all i see is queen anne’s lace

and high grasses obscure your face;

nothing remains of that aftermath;

i don’t wake up anymore

feigning restful sleep;

none of the bitter dregs except 

the coffee when it’s steeped;

your fingers are out of my mind

in all the ways i can count;

i can think straight again

on a full stomach’s amount;

i don’t track your beacon anymore,

no, i won’t die on this hill anymore, 

i’ve retraced my steps back

to my pre-war apartment,

discarded you in that

overflowing compartment.


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