here i am wanting
poetry waiting for light
please gently touch me

I sit here, amidst a darkened hall,
Congregating with the darkened rats,
Sipping upon a darkened drink— blood-drawn.

Now I rub my ******* and feel them swell,
Amidst a rally-call within this darkened hall,
Possessed by a demon’s hypnotic call— his rally-call.

Now I see a child with the fully-developed head of an adult,
Amidst this darkened hall, waiting for a mother-call,
Gesticulating for the pain of a forgotten war.

As we all know, April is “National Poetry Month.”
Last year’s Poetry month, was like a month-long superbowl.
We all enjoyed the fireworks, the rhyming-parades,
live televised poetry jams and interpretive dances (ick).

Speaking about last year, once again, the Academy of American Poets
has asked me to take the month off - for ”the sake of  poets everywhere.”

“Dear Anais
Don’t betray us.
April’s our month to shine.
We’re asking you to confine,
your poetry to the other 11 months,
please listen to us - just this once.
Your poetry isn’t that popular,
and we think your work is subtacular.”

They’d rhymed it, of course.

I was moved.
I mean, if you write my kind of poetry,
It’s a good idea to keep moving,

Happy Poetry Month!

sunbitten fingerprints all over my hands.
my body is my transport and everything in between.
i am a passenger in lethargy
fallen away sleeplessly
staples in my bedsheets my skin its paper
sunken in teeth
heavy rapid quick quickening shaky breathing
shamed to be burdened and carried
but all the same burned by the sun
by the son
aimlessly to wander where i first began
handheld and handmade but i am just an automaton
writhing in my own flesh.
give me a piano and i can return it new
but God, tell me i'm not alone in this.
all of this is so lonely.

Remember back in the days,
When you were joyous
And cared without a doubt,

Before the days of darkness
Shrouded over and cast
A shadow over you?

Remember the days
You loved, and were
Loved back?

The kisses and hugs,
The smiles given back.

The days when you
Had purpose, and drive.

Nothing could stop you,
And you felt like you
Could fly.

But one day, one mistake
After the next, you kept
Falling and tumbling down.

You lost every sense of
Self, and lost yourself in the
Process.

Ignorance is bliss,
But living in denial,
Is like a deadly sin.

What you used to be,
Never really left.

None of that is ever
Really gone.

Remember the days
When you thought
You had it all?

None of that
Was ever really lost.

In a lattice-lit dorm room sits a writer.
A discarded chemistry book lies beside her.
because ideas are hitting off her, like a collider.

Why does writing make her feel alive-er?
Cause it helps sort out the feelings inside her?

Repose is something grinding-study denies her.

Now, rhyming isn't her primary desire
the connections form, almost, despite her
poetry’s at it best when it comes unaware
“Oh,” she thinks, like, we’re going there?

What she writes might eventually be shared
with that awareness she vowels with care
picking words when they seem the ripest
shaping phrases like some sort of stylist
she may be less of a poet than a typist

Her default is to narrative - like you read in novels
cause let’s face it - cold-poetry is as dead as vaudeville,
as buried as silent movies, letters and opera,
have I come to dig Caesar up, like a fossil?
.
.
cold = straight up