and so began my mind diving; being
too sea deep – conscious thoughts
trying to swim underneath them; to see deep

and at its surface I had found…

us all being so beautiful – art in reflection
but we gaze at the bigger picture with ugly eyes,
an ugly gaze, with an ugly frame of mind

a tragic drowning picture, I could not see!

Dear Bass Clarinet,

I have no partner
To show affection for,
But deep in my core
I know
For sure
Love comes from the music
Our soul makes,
And that's is what
A bass clarinet is for.

Embrace me into every sharp
Like angels playing harp
My lips are kissed by the reed
And every note articulated
Leaves me in need.

Oh Bass Clarinet
I don't need a boy
To feel the joy
Your sound is enough
To make me feel loved.

The pill didn’t make you larger
The pill didn’t make you small
The heart lay battered
The heart lay bruised
Images of innocence lost
The pain remains

Turmoil, and pain
Resolute not
Heart lies broken
Colors to canvas
Therapy of brush strokes
Yet the pain remains

Down the rabbit hole
The walls go up
Can’t let them in
Only to be hurt again
Crumpled on the floor
Tears run freely
Still, the pain remains

The images vibrant
The vision clear
The tormented soul
Colors to canvas
The world to see
Embracing the pain that remains

On my walls hang two pieces of art;
large canvases boldly splashed
with colour, stroke upon stroke form vivid arcs.

I wish I had kept my father's paintbrushes,
they were tools of masterpieces.
From them, my strokes could have made faces flush
and inspired songs and poetry; love?

*
But, perhaps ‘twas a blessing to create with unique expression and freedom.

First stanza:
Where do I find the words to begin this piece?
Should I go for one or two stanzas—maybe even longer. tell me what will you like more?
What kind of meter or rhyme scheme would make you hear the humble knocks of my knuckles to your door?

Second stanza:
And what if I do it all wrong—
If I made it rhyme when you wanted a free verse?
If you could not hear the rhythm I aspired to contrive?
If you could not picture the imagery I had drawn?
If I wrote five stanzas when you wanted four—
What if from the moment your eyes landed on the first line, your face would tell me that you have heard me knocking but you will not let me in?

Third stanza:
Still, my fingers are wrapped around the body of this pen,
desiring to make its first stroke.
Held back however, by the thoughts of your words that has always resonated with my soul—
the very reason of why I am facing this difficult task in the first place.
Ambitious, I am very ambitious.
How dare I come up with this silly idea?
What literariness do I have that does not pale in comparison with yours?

How do I write a poem for a poet, when this is the first time I have tried, and all I have is a heart that made me believe it was possible?

You
confused
my pencil tips,
they used to write poetry
Now, they doodle in lines in bewilderment
aimlessly drawing the words in sketches of an amateur love

I didn't want to sit and pose for you
I didn't want you to paint me
For all that I was in that brief moment
I was not enough yet then
And I had no desire to be your muse
I was sitting right in front of you
Eyes begging you to keep me forever
At the table next to you
On the other side of the couch
Or to the right of you while you sleep
I don't want to be hung on the wall
Not touched for months at a time
Something you passively think about
While I'm left out to dry
What a cruel thing to do to someone
The glass pedestal you put me on
Cut me when I fell from it
Will you paint that too?