I need
my vitamin
b-12
musician
nutrition
to energize me
while I sit and listen.

Art is as essential,
as amminos
for growing
musical
muscles.

I need
my poetry
energy,
to keep moving
and informing
every forming
bit of my being.

If I hope to succeed
in whatever I endeavor
I pursue,
other people’s artistry
is the nourishment,
I need to do
what I want to do.

Time carves us all from the inside,
people recognize faces
but do not realize no one
is who they were the day before.
Every loss, every victory, chipping pieces off
like tiny stones quietly slipping over the edge.
Sometimes I want to wear my growth
Like a new dress.
Sometimes I want to share my scars
Like a name tag,
have you call me by my real name,
let the world love me without judgement.
No one escapes pain, so what’s the point in small talk.
We all share a bed with the shape of everything we’ve ever lost,
so I don’t want to talk about the weather.

Dream is
the loveliness
of deep thoughts
I know naught
freeing themselves
from my unconsciousness,

lips unsealing,
the cool blue
feeling of healing
affections,

nightmare forms
stretched and
elongated
feared and hated
at the same time
I know they came from
my sick mind.

Dull to exciting,
inviting strange lighting
to illuminate
that which will not wait
in the dusty cupboard
of my old mother Hubbard
soon to be empty
closets,

the closest thing
to revelations
that I have ever seen,
sadly
I am frequently forgetting,
even though I know
sometimes that is a blessing.

-
When the screams are silent
And the illusion’s louder
But in a fleeting moment
Reality finally broke in
Causing the facade of
Illusion to collapse
Without warnings.
One could find oneself
Fighting within
To confront the unacceptable
Truth , that
My life is fading away
Right before my eyes and
With few remaining hopes.
And lately as my legs collapsing
Fallen from underneath me
Like my hair during chemo
I’ve felt just how much
I have been holding
Onto fear,  despite living from
My heart, from the light.
Despite telling myself
Not to given into the dark side
Of this journey,
Despite my attempts trying
To convince my mind
My body and my soul
That I have let go of all fears
Convincing myself that I was
Like a great magician and that
I can make all illnesses disappear,
By operating from a place of light
Like the moon, my mentor.
Sometimes having to create
A psychological cage
In my head ,
To keep my thoughts
From wandering and wander
From my canvas of illusion.
Until, recently all has flushed away.
But truth remains
One would never know
Unless I unfold
The rough drawings
Of my life sketchbook,
To even notice my pain
My sufferance In
Between the lines.
Because in my head
Like a great artist
I decide what I paint
I decide what you see
I decide what I believe
I am, I am
A imperfect artist
Who has painted a self portrait
Full of light
Full of hope
So amazingly bright and surprisingly good enough
For even the world's greatest art critique
To notice my cracks on the white canvas.

I write
like I conversate,
ready to elevate
or deflate
my own ego,

learning what
I know
and what I do not
know that I don’t
know;

Fulfilling the promise of
constantly being willing to
blow myself up.

I write like I am on fire,
begging for unsmoked air
whilst choking on
the beauty of trying
to not be the one dying.

I write like
I have something to say,
but mostly
say nothing
in the most graceful
style.

I write like
I am meant to
spend a few
words on you
who need
to breath
literary
artistry,
like plants need
to breath carbon.

So, I write like
I am a tree
and you are a human being,
a certain symbiosis.
I hope you know this.

I write like I hate
and love you all
with the same verse.

Elliott is 10 today, a decade passed like the blink of an eye, yet I feel like I have loved him forever, time is funny like that. He’s closer to adult now than baby on my lap; a thought too achy to process. His toy box sits untouched most days, sometimes I’ll see him pick up an action figure he used to love, and there will be a slight spark in his eye, but it’s gone as fast as it comes. From his room, I can hear him laughing while watching cartoons. I cling to these fleeting moments of his childhood, imprint the sound of his wild boy laugh, commit it to memory, and understand that time only passes this fast when you love this hard. I am happy to love you so, my dear, let the years pass, fast as they may.

There is no place on earth
no pile of dirt
that is worth
the sickening hurt,
of treating others worse
than they deserve.

There is no spot
cold or hot
that beats this
once in a lifetime
that we all got.

So, why not,
be kind and
listen to others
and offer a
helping hand
to your fellow
humans?

T’was
a melody of
sweet love,

a poem written
by the smitten,

words weaved
for all to see
such awesome
symmetry,

but it ran on
too long,
and I got
lost.

Distracted,
my eyes
averted to
brighter skies,
and the melancholy
of his poetry
faded from my mind.

T’was as verse
and several stanza
too long,
so I have moved on
and am currently
enjoying the poetry
of nature’s glowing
glory.

I acknowledge
that life is not this
certain,
but needs
certain balance.

So, the introvert
comes out to play,
quick witted word games,
flowing faster
than a rapper’s
lyrics.

I am spitting wisdom
and she hears it.
The reapers beating
bares repeating
cause he is seeding
deep desire.

Larcenous lust,
pushing to touch,
so intrusive,

but I am consumed,
and engaged,
as I parlay
what we say
in conversation,
exchange said thoughts
for something caught
in my poetry.

I.
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

II.
Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

III.
The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

IV.
Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.