Archive 03/17/09 - (2)

   

Who I Really Am

                              

After writing poems, for more than forty-five years,

No metaphors, internal rhymes have proven elusive,

Nor have any of the characters I've beckoned rejected me.

 

Indeed, so total has been my focus on making dramas,

Conjuring, from nonexistence,

Flesh-and-guts shadows struggling with consequences,

 

In fairy-tale, surreal, and historical settings,

That I often forget how to distinguish who I really am

From who I really am when lost in my imagination.

 

Breathing a life of creativity has provided me with refuge.

Few humans get through my invisible fence.

The only way to penetrate my spirit, meet my soul,

 

Is by probing the lines of verse that have given me birth

And will pulsate, in the rhythms of my passion,

Long after my ink has dried, my blood has become dust.

 

       

 

 

03/17/09 - (2)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
       

 

 
   
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