I will, for I can, go beyond my station now
Wherefore should I be confined? And how
You will wonder at me in the future,
Which I shall make my present, forgetting the suture
That has held my mouth - It is not a scar;
And I have a million things to say as they are,
Or as they might be - I will ape Almodóvar
And outshine Solovjov, and will I go far!
I will be She of the next generation;
But I must get beyond this station
I must move beyond the static,
From the bedroom to the attic,
And from thereon, to the world,
When my courage has unfurled;
And I will seize this with both hands
And deal you wonder, charm and reprimands:
I will paint you images, and write you songs,
Celebrate your joy, and right your wrongs,
Pick at the intricacies, and throw the obvious,
Show humankind as honest and oblivious,
And I will do this all, and watch me so -
I just need to ready, set, and go.

Beware!

I am losing myself to art

Spilling the chaos on the canvas

I may not remain a whole

For I maybe draped in a hand skill

Stroked with animal hair

Lost in the heat of colors

Seized in an imaginative capture

Transfixed in time

The remnants hard to characterize

Mutilated for an inventive victory

Woven in a verse of triumph

Sometimes discreet in absurdity

Sometimes molested in modernity

I may not remain a whole

Dashes may surface

In exhibits,

It may surround your gaze

Exist as a description

Limited just as a name.

Put pen to paper
- it's so simple -
And wield the might
Of countless words!

Be brave and daring
Or... be nimble:
Your thoughts can be
As sharp as swords.

Pick up a pencil
- pen a poem -
Enlighten, thrill and entertain!
But once it does spring from your *****,
What sway is there to retain?..

The words you say
Are gone forever!
Life of their own,
So free at last!

By humbly scribbling
You endeavour
To stay the future and the past...

Partake in pleasure
- pure and proper -
Both art and craft, it's eons old!

Tread lightly!
There's a world on offer,
A slew of stories to be told.

Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.

Had I tried and failed,
That would scarcely concern me,
Yet, I squandered my resources
Time and time again,
And failed so unnecessarily,
That is what so torments me.

I only wish I could contemplate
More than a mere handful
Of past achievements with pride
And satisfaction,
But even this paltry compensation,
Remains stubbornly beyond me.

Oh! With what unspeakable anguish
Do I regret the vocation
I came so close
And so oft to having
The sweet acclamation
That might have been mine.

I dream a dream of skill,
I gather pictures of best practice
(methods best enacted off the couch.)
I house,
crisp corners, soaring beams and posts
where gawkers marvel, ‘cos
the high is feeling good. I see
the woods
and watch the owners.
(What good grip they have! enough to claim
what they could never care for-
let the lessers sing their lives!)
I drive a drive
not fast enough for fastness-makers,
flaunting logos, polished chrome,
I drive a loan.

None say it, none will ever hear
these soft confessions to
the “here” I hold right now
in its un-good. I slip
a “should” on, halfway,
dumping it for snacks and cons -
I run for miles
to lose it on the lawn.

And as I break, I pause to
watch a bit to see how not to fail.
I land in jail. The wardens
never speak to me,
the only copy of the key
described in stories, but
they’ve scattered every page.
And every day I fail
to reconstruct it out of naught,
I age.