I’ve already shaped my life,
planned it as a single woman,
in my little Brooklyn apartment
with my Jersey degree.

But I’ll always want
an intellectual, creative, opinionated man
to come home to
to share my bed with
that knows how to dress, when to undress.

Every writer wants to write
But every writer is not everyone
We all want to be poetic,
and write about art and literature

But the critics will say
“You’re trying to hard”
and simply walk away

Little star
Are you Santa Clause?
Little star

He’s at the crime scene with the metro
Miami is his city of love
But his love is different,
different from what you’ll ever know

Blinded by drugless addiction
This is his code
This is how he behaves

He’ll find you in the night
No doubt he’ll catch you

Oh, he’s a mind reader
Stocking up on your latest news
He’s tonight’s headline
and no one has a clue
He’s a diamond in the rough
and a sparkle in my eye

Take me away to a place so far
Where north is south
Where left is right
Where I am you

In my bed,
I am falling into fantasy,
face down, plummeting
into my pillow.

I am dreaming to escape reality,
and escaping reality to dream
and contemplating,
brainstorming,
things I’ll forget by morning.

Writer, musician, painter,
singer, photographer, poet,
journalist. humanist, artist,
intellect, reader, advocate,

but somehow never enough
for the the uninvolved parents,
the relatives that only send cards,
the fair weather friends,
and the not-so-helpful critics,

but most importantly, you.