Here I'll hide
if only for a little while
no more the white noise
banging toys

Leave it for a day and the world forgets you exist. Not all followers, mind you, but most. Over 4,000 followers on Twitter and they'll retweet the latest tweet only. Most won't ask "Where's Kendra? Is she ok?" They won't go through my archives of posted poems to read or find some kinship. No. Only the latest & greatest, thank you very much.

Is it my poetry? Does it throw people off? Is it because I don't constantly write about erotica & flaming ***? Is it because I discuss domestic violence like an uncaged soul? Or is it merely the beast of social media, itself? These questions I often ask myself.

I suppose it sounds like I'm feeling sorry for myself. Perhaps that isn't too far from the truth.

Not to put myself on some pedestal. I do the same thing. I simply find it sad. Thousands of poems posted between here, Twitter, blogs, etc. and it all goes unnoticed - except the latest one posted. Surely I'm not the only who feels this way but it wouldn't be the first time if I am.

There it was
  that hard line
  scribbled quite crookedly
  in sand
So we went back
  to make it more clear
  before the wind
  swept it away

I write. Poetry, scribblings; romantic dribblings. Sometimes the words come so easy; dancing in my mind - just waiting to be stamped on a page. Other times they meditate in the shadows of my mind & I'm left searching for them; burning sage. Ahhh. But I still write. Much like I'm doing this very moment. Just waiting for the muse to make that entry; that exhilarating proclament.

I was born on a full moon night in May
Whipping winds
Cool breeze
I came into this world
with such ease
Clouds that once threatened rain
released their torrential reign
In the eye of the storm
A sleeping babe comforted
Knowing instinctively
her life
would never follow
the usual norm

~KendraLynn

"Do you need a paintbrush?"
As if that'll make everything better
"Is everything ok?"
Mommy's worried now; her heart set to flutter

Oh, the golden boy
A man
Talking with mommy
one would never know
She protects him so much
it's isolating
She thinks for him
the wheels in his head no longer oscillating
She'll continue to do it, though
Oh, you know
you know
Mama's golden boy
He has no harvest
no field of his own to sew

"I'm okay"
That's what she said
She said
So why are her eyes
rimmed in red?
Saying all the things
she never said