Where are the words, the ones with sparks
to set a fire in wooden hearts
and set to work my wooden tongue
with all the wit that they impart ?

where do those words that all belong
in works of poetry come from ?
I know them only as the guests
that visit me by book and song;

my own words bear the awkwardness
of someone starting to undress
with clumsy thumbs and wooden hands
and should perhaps stay unexpressed..

In a locked box.
inside a dark room.
A lock of hair
a letter
a lipstick tube
My thoughts
No one sees them
Brilliant black

In a locked box
A love poem
An Empty perfume bottle
a woolen glove.
Hidden in darkness
Brilliant black

In a locked box
A house dark and empty.
Full of shadows
a bag of memories.
No one knows.
Brilliant black

In a locked box
a bottle of tears
My broken heart
shattered like crystal
No one cares
Brilliant black

Deliver me from the folly of jealous men . From the mirth of mischievous demons that long to traduce and besmirch , remove all thought of appeasement toward the rancorous and ill intended serpents that crawl the Earth . Shelter me from the disingenuous , the naysayers of good intent and those that portend lies as benefaction , seeking my friendship through groundless merit and frivolous actions ..
Guide my feet across the perilous river of treachery toward my fellow man , directing my ears to the benefits of silence , gravitate my persona into the light of Dharma ..
Bind my arms from receiving poisonous bounty , render my tongue stillborn to boastful atrocity ..
Sharpen my eyes in the confusion of night , grace the helm of life's vehicle with the Angelic aura of pure white light* ..

I refuse to apologize for the things I've written.
I refuse to apologize for telling truths amongst the cacophony in rhymes, or rhythms, or word *****.
I refuse to not own this brain, to regret my depression, to swallow my anxiety with a pill.
I will not lie, as my family expands and my brain reconforms to standards I forgot, it gets harder to dig up the person that bled for these words.
She and I aren't the same anymore, but we belong to the same body.
So I call on her when I need her, let myself really feel everything, my alter ego: the poet.
As my boyfriend's family asks me what I do for fun, I try not to lie. To say that I pour words from my soul is distasteful. So I joke "I'm a poet of sorts, a writer."
And they look at me with frightened eyes, so I do not tell them this is what I want to do for a living.
I do not tell them about the razor blades beneath my bed at age 16, or the ****** assault at 20.
I do not tell them inside this head is a mess that is desperately hiding.
But I do not disown her. My mess. My poet heart.

I am
I was
what would I be
tomorrow?

how would I exactly know?
but if I set the compass
of my heart in the right direction
I won't be lost--I'll somehow endure

It'll be the same me in most measure
but the scenario will not be
if love, faith and charity are with me
it would be a day I'll count happy

then follows the dawn after tomorrow
and I'll again face another day
I'll still stand steadfast and do what I should
I won't be lost and will never turn away.

To swim with the river in June...

I still remember
the coldest night I remember.
Poker,
whiskey, and snow.
Willowy hair of smoke and icy breath,
the fingers of early Winter
creeping up my thighs and inside of me--
freezing my innards, a corpse.

But a flower,
the bravest of winter,
braver than I,
who can only glimpse beauty,
but never come so close to it.
To penetrate such stillness would surely finish me.
Abiit ad  maiores.
She has left well.