Why do I write such poetry, and then become ashamed of it?
Why do I express myself in flourishes, and then gag upon my words?
What is it about my playful spinning that relieves pain in one nerve, but probes another?
I have not named each of my butterflies, nor have I loved them all.
Some I swear are spiders, indeed, I own them as well.  But even them I don’t all recognize.  
I have spurned some colored wings, and grown squeamish at the sight of legs.
Others I have watched from childhood, dancing with them in the wind,
Calling them to my side for comfort, rejoicing in their patterns and their Maker
In my hands sit joy for others, gently cradled, less vulnerable than I imagine.
One by one they must be paraded out,
Oh, do not let their wings fly in your face,
They were made to be beautiful, these little gifts of energy,
Made for you, and I

I used to be a mystic
Or at least what I thought was one
Effortless it was as a child to be completely
Transformed
Transported
Transfixed
It was more than pretend
I was these people
I went to these places
As the dust settled and the years have gone bye,
It has gotten harder to find these places again.
To be these people
It's only a feeling now
Here and there
When I stare at the lines
in my hands
I only get glimpses
Like the aftertaste of a single malt
lingering like a memory
Only a non mystic would use that metaphor
But I feel like I was a mystic longer than most

words unsung
and stories
unread,
but this silly little child
fears to leave her
bed.

I just want to write one more,
      before I become an adult again.