POEM

When I die
I want to be a poet
They will discover
Under the bedstand
Numerous journals
Filled with my brilliant musings

When I die
I want to be a poet
They will collect my writings
In themed anthologies
Oblivious to the whirlwind
Of my mind

When I die
I want to be a poet
Who will be poked at
Prodded and dissected
By adolescent girls and boys
Who are told no by the educated elite

When I die
I want to be a poet
That one young girl keeps by her
Bed at night
And silently reads to herself
In her voice
The road of my undoing

When I die
I want to be a poet
With a cult following
Because I did not obey the rules
And be misinterpreted over and over
Because I am not here to explain myself

When I die
I want to be a poet
And I want the world to know
My secrets I hide from them
In the daylight of judgment
And my innermost turmoil
They will never understand

When I die
I want my writings burned
Inside the charcoal grill
On my deck
And the ashes spread in Doolin
Glasses raised in my honor
In honor of the century’s greatest poet
Who tragically was not recognized
Until after her death

And to quote myself
“fuck ain’t that the way it is”.

SONG

I don’t know you
But I would like to
So take my hand and cross my heart

Come play with me in the dark

You can push me on a swing
I’ll push you back harder
Take you for a scary ride

Then you can fall down my black slide

I don’t know you
But I would like to
You hold secrets I have touched
You don’t know me But you would love to

Come play with me come love

You’re from the city
So I’m told
You know too many things
And you’d break me
And not even take me
Back to your city
And set me free

I don’t know you
Or your black ladder
That’s ok just cross your heart

Come play with me in the dark

Come play with me
Come set me free

Saying Goodbye

The tear spring is dry
and a frozen stone has
claimed it for a resting place

Inside my Head

What are
These bars
These walls
These chains
Surrounding my Voice

Dexter

GIVING MYSELF PERMISSION

And If I adore you
What sin is not undone
Black White moving pictures in my mind
Passing moments shared before
What may or may not become

GOYA'S GHOST

Early tonight
Goya’s ghost
Subtly fought his way
Past my defenses
And gently kissed me
For a moment only
I could believe
In who I am
In who I will become
Past all doubts and fears
Beyond all practical expectations

Then as quietly as he had come
He slipped away from the voice
That cradled me only moments ago
And beyond into the grave
Inviting me to remember
Daring to not forget

MORNING CHILL

MORNING STAR

The artist in me

Void of inspiration
So I start to believe
The lies about myself
The tongue of my undoing
Whispers day after day

The same tongue that paints
That draws and molds
That frees me in moments
I left myself create
Abandons the artist in me
For too long