I told her I am somebody new this year.
Someone with a story to tell.
Someone with something to write about.

Last year I was a drug addict.
The year before that, I was a drug dealer.
The year before that I lost all my money gambling.
The year before that I tried to be a gambler.
The year before that, my sister picked me up in front of a greyhound station.
I didn't have any shoes.
I was trying to be a hobo.
The year before that I was trying to be an artist...or an alcoholic...whichever one drinks more.
The year before that I dropped out of college.
The year before that I tried to be a college student.
That year.
The year I started writing.
The year my words started to flow.
The year I had a teachers love support me to the point where I left school to go support myself by writing.  
That year, I tried to be a writer.
But I didn't have anything to write about.
And she said, "go try new things."
"Go be somebody new."
"Go be someone with a story to tell"
she told me, "Go be someone with something to write about"

Keep poetry
In the clouds above your head
Write poetry
Across the world to make peoples
Think that you are a poet
Love poetry
When u are having good habits
Or compassion
Express poetry
About your feelings happening now
Show poetry
What u are able to do with it
Telling others that
                           POETRY
                                 IS
                       EVERYTHING
  But keeping poetry is what we do today.

                         By K-mari ©2016

Why do they die?
The healthy ones against
wind rain, snow and disease.
It died. Fell over with a groan.
It was just a red oak; I loved it.

quiet dormant sleeping lion
a great story, in us all
ferocity caved copper chains
unshared passion, safe and small

break a father's glass ceilings down
operate in truer laws
let not society cage t' beast
conjure up your wild claws

unheeded as they live
quietly by themselves
easy smiles flowing
banter chatter of
familiar things,

anything out of the
ordinary troubles
them for days after,
furrowed foreheads,
hushed exteriors,

slowly then life
seeps back to
their features,
that engaging goodwill
of generations,

of gentle demeanour
fragile as glass yet
companions affable,
little whiffs of honey
to the human hive,

a vine wall pattern
tribal's thumping
multi-drum song,
unassuming in
celebration,  
    
in the world's
gather, among
greed-gathering
plush pushing
***** blokes

soft spread gentle
wounded crumpled
sing-song trample
firefly twinkle
simple people...

Such a wonderful thing
To stay up late for.
To stay awake for.
To stay trapped inside this moment
Feeding on your foundation
And living in that look on your face
For.