There are sharp bits
of salted bitterness
bleeding,
knees scraped from
pleading
for someone to see
and believe
in the value
of what they’re are reading,
words which I wrote
with love,
the art I permitted
to be exhibited.

I want to be seen,
have my heart heard
in each word
I project,
open the wounds
I protect
and bleed art,
gift freely
that which
is the essence of me.

I know it is needy
to want to reach you
so, you can see me,

and here is
the Greek tragedy,
like Cassandra
the prophetess
I am doomed
to have no one
believe me.

Even though
I know
the value
of what I give freely
with love.