I PLAN TO DIE AT AGE 45
NO MATTER HOW MANY YEARS I’VE LIVED
-stolen

Little mouse in a room size maze
Every way you turn is wrong
And the cheese stays ever far away
If only you could cimb the walls
Or find a map to help you
Your tiny legs are very tired
And your brain is overloaded
But you can’t stop, for if you do
You get the current’s tickle
ljm

Fading
Like a beauty queen
Grown old,
Sunrise is too quckly over.
ljm

Question-How do you write?
Answer- I write,
What I have seen
What I have been
What I feel
What I deal
What I realize
What I visualize
What I love
What I observe
What I live
to live....

In Georgia, it is 82 degrees.
Sweltering sticky heat and air so thick with humidity
It’s like you’re swimming through syrup
Weigh me down.
Sweat slips down my spine like living water, a reminder that
I am here— uncomfortable, yes, but not quite hurting.
People smile. I smile back.

In New York, it’s 39 degrees.
Wind whips at my face, rendering my cheeks rosy and stinging my eyes with tears.
My teeth chatter, rattling my whole jaw with them.
The subtle pain reminds me I’m alive.
I’m not quite sure when I decided pain and existence were synonymous
But I did
And today is another reminder.
I smile. No one smiles back.

At least they’re alive. At least I am.

Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,

If you want to know the truth
Go back to yourself.