I write
I write.
Call it a stigma,
the real writers do
were they to say it more or less eloquently.
I feel that I can’t compete…
too many perfect words written,
appropriately sung against silence.
Even the cliches have a sacred chicness
that “status quo” sounds like it has.
That my words can’t compare…well,
I just hope that they exert enough energy
to cause notice,
a nod, perhaps a smile.
Were they sticky enough to stay and dance
fitfully in someone’s thoughts…
That might be refreshing.
I can’t keep being so human
if I don’t have a moment to
rip & scream and just Be Uncomfortable.
Not debate the words that simmer inside me or analyze
Sacrifice my what-would-ideal-me-do
I WOULD be free
I could be expressive
I want to feel that rage
if not beautiful, it is HONEST…
and the capacity to despise does not
fill rooms that could house love;
there are kitchens and closets in buildings of stories
waiting for the space to bleed.
no passion will go unposessed, at least within my pages.
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