Darker times
They're telling boulder heavy lies
Looks like all we've got is each other
The truth is obsolete

Remember when all I had was my mother
She didn't compromise
She could recognize, voodoo

I had Voodoo by Frank Ocean on repeat this morning. His poetry, old or recent, has always seemed so effective to me. Like how he could turn a blatantly trivial sentence in a universe of its own by changing or magnifying only one word. When I think about it, I believe it's his style that has reeled me into poetry in the first place. Telling a story, describing the world, exactly as it is brings a sense of realism that, once juxtaposed to a metaphor, exposes such contrast that it makes you feel like our reality was always meant to be magical in the first place.

That's how I see the world. Everything has the potential for magic. What I mean by this is if even a word can change your whole perspective on a sentence just by stemming from a register opposite to the rest of the sentence, then so can you in your surroundings. How you behave, your sense of self and your perspective form your register; they unequivocally and directly mold your form.

When I say form, I'm speaking about the borders between you and the world. Where the world folds when you push upon it, where you collapse under its pressure. By this dynamic and the thousands of choices that constitute it, you are forged. Being aware of it lets you play with your form as the potter would with clay : You know who you are therefore you understand that you are malleable and potent enough to assume any form.

To me, that's Voodoo: the ability to enchant your environment with the sole knowledge that it is you and you are it.