I Can Muse a Poem

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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…..

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Composed on 08/11/2014

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Poetry