Daddy's friends like to laugh
and have another beer
to watch me
when I bring it

but today they fall silent
you could be bothered yourself
with a difficult daughter
who posts poems

about *** and the love
of her father and
a distant lover

What is the matter with him
and this interest in my inner self?
Too bad, he does not understand

Only in fantasy can I express
what I need and
what makes me angry

I am finished with being a muse –
The victimized wet-dream of art
Who, slowly turning on a dais
Raised on superficial planks,
Will soon be a forgotten toy
That once loved, now has lost its charm,
And crushed into a corner waits
Till memory renews its rank.

The gods can have this blessing back.
I'll mar my face and tear my hair
And burn my robe and crown of gold
And wade in mud up to my knee,
Or suffer cows and sweat for milk,
Or brave a sea of mug and chair.
Oh, silver platter-washing, I
Would gladly be ordinary!

Yet, bar-girls also have to feign
And feint from lofty thoughts of He.
And milkmaids, too, are often set
Upon a stool above their wish.
From scullery to cloudless mount,
If privy parts inverted be,
You serve the wielder of the wand,
Obliged to lie down as his dish.

I am not asking for support
or anything much more
but why is that doing what I want
and going to where my hearts want to go
People have always something to say
like a harsh reminder
that own happiness is luxurious
and impossible to attain?

I've thought of records and audio files,
Where my voice trails on awkwardly enough,
For me to flinch hard as I listen to
All the silly problems that I wish to
Address in my teenage years, because soon
I'll forget myself, I'll forget my youth
And frankly? I ain't ready for those sad,
Sad twenties and the lonely apartments -
If only I had that audio file -
I'd pour my feelings out, let them go like
Water from a beat down dam heading for
The ocean, that water calls me now and
Its soft hum brings me down to Earth, but my
Stupid feelings are still screaming they're still
Deeply buried in the sand and the ground
It shakes with each unspoken thought I've yet
To let out, but if someone doesn't bring
A shovel, I might as well keep shaking
'Til I stop hating the sound of my own **** voice.