my throne is made
of silver and bone
tarnished and alone
I sit waiting for you

threads tie my wrists
in ribbons of red string
like a pretty little parcel
another play thing

you toy with me
a game of cat and mouse
watch your fingers unbutton
the top of my blouse

I watch as you
uncover my chest
to plunge a dull dagger
into my breast

shock sets first
I sputter and cry
blood then bursts
hands covered red

my eyes aglow
a wounded animal
blood pools below
I think of your lips

of sunshine kisses
an ocean of care
until that moment
love was all fair

now the price is paid
heavy hearts lay
I foam at the mouth
like a rabid stray

my crown is made
of cobwebs and spiders
I think of your face
as consciousness fades

I hope
I hope you
I hope you know
I hope you know how
I hope you know how you
I hope you know how you make
I hope you know how you make me
I hope you know how you make me feel

Loved....

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write.

So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist.

Isn't that what poetry does?
Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly,
We all grieve,
We all seek,
We all love,
We all want,
We all cry,
We all wonder,
We all simply exist.

And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition,
It's about conveying this notion of existing.