Poet

On my most open page

I have been hiding.

Beneath the folds

of the library's master -

I sheltered there...

lapped the ink,

dried the page.

How I loved it.

Not a soul

hath tasted the nature

of my organic words -

Though,

they breathe for you.

At sanity's end,
I closed the book!

&, oh,

how it did defeat me to...

I lain,
a misery.

Until paper found my palm again...

Heaven, Haels! My ill-forgotten friend.

I was mistaken.

It is this pen

I live in.

Pretty

Maybe tomorrow I'll be pretty.

or Tuesday.

Sometimes,

I'll be pink for a day

just to say I was pretty.

But other days I feel so..

blue.

But then, the beauty takes me away -

to some other shade of orange...

Something like a sunset;

One you'd never thought to see,

hazed in pretty purple pieces of me.

Sensibility

Why...
these words, ugly,
Ever haunting the homes of the once known?
Consuming lost meaning,
defining lives, all our own.

I say,
everything is nothing;
& in a dream,
I found 8 impossible things
before breakfast,
& fed them to my cat
who said "quite honestly,
nothing is ours."

So we left,
through an open window.
Because you said so, sensibly.

Self-worth

Only given worth to myself;

I am empty upon the shelf.

Told by word of mouth,

breathed to mean it,

but couldn't shout --

It is me.

When I greet the setting sky,

jet the blackness in my eyes,

crease the curse across my thighs...

It is me.

& when I eat the open 'morrow,

rest my worries,

calm my sorrow

I can live,

for it is me

that I live for.

Bleach

This is the bleach on the walls.

Where I want to live.

Where I was born to become from.

Grey clouds make droplets of tasteful love

leftover petals

from the honey flower I chewed.

Mother called

& through the clean screen door

I smelled warm bread

& the plastic of our short rug.

In a kind of heavenly happiness

I float inside the room

laughing sweetly

with everyone else around me.

What a comfort,

what a clean slate.

ELIZABETH by Edgar Allan Poe

Elizabeth, it surely is most fit

(Logic and common usage so commanding)

In thy own book that first thy name be writ,

Zeno and other sages notwithstanding;
And I have other reasons for so doing
Besides my innate love of contradiction;
Each poet - if a poet - in pursuing
The muses thro' their bowers of Truth or Fiction,
Has studied very little of his part,
Read nothing, written less - in short's a fool
Endued with neither soul, nor sense, nor art,
Being ignorant of one important rule,
Employed in even the theses of the school-
Called - I forget the heathenish Greek name
(Called anything, its meaning is the same)
"Always write first things uppermost in the heart."

(Zeno, a philosopher who said "that one's own name should never appear in one's own book")

Who You Are

One could argue 

all the day

on the way the world moves;

Captivating clouds, and sand storm grooves.

Though the only true thing

it comes right down to

is the mortal you choose to be,

and how much love you'll let loose.

Predator

Everything is in short focus,

lights are falling down,

scattered among the broken glass -

footsteps all around.

Empty was the creatures crate,

steady was the pace,

captured were the humans who

ne'er won the race.

Meddling in Mother's Garden

A stick in the mud.

Critters come to cuddle,

meddle in grubs,

their feet in the hollow.

That poor old sap

spilling its drink

on old folks

in petticoats --

Lizards licking sheep 

in anger...

You know,

we were taught to be strangers.

I told you, behave;

Who are we?

Animals among the trees

taking drinks from our cups

that double as voice?

Never a day we not be at rest -

where we not love our cousin, nature.

Where we not be free as bark on trees.

This day never come,

but it be meant to.