I've never moved ink like this,
and like ink is
surprised by the
sudden shift,
           so am I
surprised by how
I've never been swayed like this
either

You'd think a poet-dancer-painter-joiedelavie-creator
would have felt the
  move of
everything and
  never missed a
cue or crossed-T
but

there are ways I'm finding
to push the pen that I
haven't tried
before
and
I am
being
moved as
well, in ways my
spindly bones did not know
that they could bend,
before

like growing the fruit at the
end of a
branch, I'm learning to
  balance
           the
          weight

Take it upon yourself
To do good things
Rewards will come to you eventually
Think of the joy that you would bring
Go through those hazardous fires
To see the light
Keep a positive demeanor
In order to make things bright

my mother always said
"don't fall in love with a poet"
they pretend to love you
but what they really love
is writing about loving you
you are mere words to them
feelings cheapened by a page,
dusty grey typewriters,
and many unfinished drafts
of lovers both old and new,
you are the question mark,
but not the answer,
they are searching for ?
person unidentified: mystery
the page wanderer,
each poem a missing
person poster to cover their
bedroom walls.
they cannot love something
that is in their head
poets are the loneliest of
all people, my mother said.
they write to immortalize
what has long passed.
to live within their words,
but not reality,
lost souls writing suicide notes
and proclaiming it art.