JUST DECIDE WHO YOU ARE ALREADY!!!

Poetry is sculpting,

                 touch my atomic being.

In the canopy
we reach for branches
to hold on to.

I'm shy.
I'm tongue tied.
My hands struggle to type.

My bottom lip quivers.
My body shakes
(and not in the good way).

I can't eat,
tie my shoe,
just relax or
make the first move.

I'm always first to text you

with shame,
but masquerading
and gray.
A noctural opportune,
cold,
******,
bound,
seduced,
a freak —
your flavor of the weak.

Don't judge me by my looks
And don't read me by the books
I am brash and I am kind
I am hard to define
I am bold. I am shy
I am grounded, but I fly
I love, and I give
I cradle, I forgive
Though soft I may feel
I am thunder, I am steel
I am smiles and I am laughter
I am happily ever after
I am tears and I am ache
I am a mess when I break
I hold tightly, but I know
When it's time to let go
I am dove, I am hawk
I am the rose and the rock
I am rain. I am sun
I am I. I am woman



Thank you all so much **

I used to talk about poetry.
Now I just write it.
I used to talk about it,
quote little snippets,
would they pick up on my genius?
...see what I did there,
my crickets?

I used to send poems
to friends that got me,
or needed them.
But the beauty I found in
fitting their lives to mine
was less
an exercise in type.

I used to be approached
by readers with kind words,
and open hearts, poets themselves.

I am poached these days.

I used to be a poet,
to blank stares
and shifting glances
steeped in shame,
I toppled like a tower.

Am I not pretty or witty enough?


Am I not pretty or witty?


Enough.