The mother inside of me finds no shortage of spontaneity and wit.
I can be surprisingly superfluous when I am lecturing my child.

Trouble arrives when I call myself a writer, and that’s when I get deliberate.
When I dictate myself to the writer’s rigor, dictation gets scant in my head.

Words… A few of those that got me into trouble with my sister’s feelings.
The same words that rivaled the time and place they were spoken at.

I lose the freedom to think, emote and be myself when I choose to write,
I did not live a terrible childhood, so, I must not have anything to say??

Others have flawless expectations about how I should be a mother, a sister, a wife,
a daughter and a friend.. I have none other than my own obligations to save the world.

The quest is mostly a secret one, one that I am sure no will “get it” about me. But, I
create visuals of dreams, death, hunger and seduction which I hope society can perceive.

It’s not a choice of purpose and productivity over fame and money, I assure myself.
Words should not aggravate expectations when I am famous.

I feel the same vulnerability as I wait for that invitation to a friend’s house.
Emotions become loyal to me when I am not true to myself.

I clear the mental clutter, the thoughts of the missing keys, deadlines not met, etc.
Stopping time and stitching lines into place that are as timeless as possible.

I take up probationary hermit-hood to assemble images of social justice,  and
challenge myself to be able to excel in the art of perceiving others’ thoughts.

We all have needs and this is mine, I am sure of that. If I have to,
I will compete with my baby who can speak up a lexicon and make it sound genius.

There are many drafts, I vex over conversations in the head and on paper.
Finally, when words come to me effortlessly, my existence seems solitary.

I have spent a huge chunk of my life on this brilliant poem, and you, my reader will own it.
Now, like all those other times, I will get back out there into spaces filled with people.

I will try my best to make myself approachable, for the fear of running out of material.
To love, hurt, get wounded, make errors and replenish those loss of words…..

Composed on 08/11/2014

 

* * *

 

%d bloggers like this: