Wandering

not lost because only those
who choose to be lost
are the ones who feel most free.

Wondering

not found because those who
find themselves stranded on mountains

peaks that steep with cliffs
so brief they threaten to
collapse the body with snow.

But dirt tends to cling
to those who dare
themselves to fall
hitting pine trees
and mulberry bushes
hearing buzzing bees
and small white thrushes.

I see this small image of me

in my mind’s eye.

In a world filled with black fog,

there in the center stands someone.

Who feels like

my life personified.

I feel I am copy of whoever

stands in that darkness.

I feel I only exist there.

I feel I am the darkness.

Suit and tie
or gold stacked high
dreams cast out
take root
for a few

agreed upon reality
of desired traits
inhibit the minds
of never divine
mental states

stay true to yourself,
rebel
I'll stand with you

challenge your planet
with constructs of mind
shape it, form it
and for you,
the earth shall rise

I curl my hands into
His tight curls loosened by shampoo
Briefly kisses my hazy gaze

Grab his hand before he scrubs
Into the generous pile of soap and
Buries it to my chest
I greedily soak up the soap.

The bath water is delicately blue
Balanced between a light smoky exhale
And the edges of the midday sun
Reflecting impurities from our bodies

The news he broke like an egg
About to be dropped into boiling water
The tension seeps past the skin
And settles into my newly softened joints.

The slow decline in poets and novelists
over centuries
"it's not a profitable profession",
the media sighs

as if
pressing your products against
the fresh face of youth
is a morally just career

"author, poet, and playwright"
does being a playwright guarantee
you bringing home the bacon?

as a younger generation we are
focused only on ourselves
how to improve, how to survive
no one becomes a playwright anymore.

can playwrights earn enough
to feed their creative brain?
perhaps it is the lack of self-obsession
that benefits them.

She once thought,
she wanted to be a poet,
but deep down,
she knew,
she wanted to be a poem.