I Dream

I never yield to intimidation

In comparison to my own

All incendiary critique pales

*

I know who I am

Though sometimes

I lack the means

To reap potential

*

If a sickle I’d be a moon

Half undressed

So I could indulge

To my heart’s content

The poetry

Of interstellar passage

*

The ghost of metronome

Relinquishes my steps

I am borrowed and blue

Elbow deep in the yellow pages

Sometimes a girl needs help

Defining her priorities

*

I am not the sensible sort

I’ve always sought

Instinct over provision

Love is everything

It’s the epoxy that holds

My molecules steadfast

*

I dream, I dream, I dream

Were I a writer others might

Know my heart as I have

Always known her,

In opposition to intellect,

My mind is unwilling to suffer

For the sake of accomplishment

She is content with her gavel and scale

Content to judge and measure

In complete isolation

*

My muscles twitch indignantly

But rationalization objects

You’re sick, you’re tired, you’re lazy.

Sometimes I resent homeostasis

To move through wind showers

And arbitration because I felt

Inspired by the presence

Of a disembodied voice

Welling up artlessly within

That is my highest ideal

That is the poet serving

Virtuously as vessel

To the muse most adored

*

Lately I’ve written without a single thought in my head. It’s not that I don’t have thoughts, it’s not that I’ve stopped feeding my intellectual curiosity, and it’s certainly not I’ve stopped picking at my scabs. It’s simply that when I write I am unscrewing all the valves and letting the words pour out uninterrupted. I want to see what happens when I don’t judge and criticize myself relentlessly while composing a poem. What happens when I just let my heart speak for itself? At the moment writing it very Zen and very liberating.