Mother, I’m not quite ready to face confrontation.
i just want to see beautiful art that gets my blood flowing more than any pharmaceutical can.
i’m not quite ready to talk about death, loss and anger placed in boxes i’ve buried across the land.
a physician of the mind can’t empty my goblet of sour wine or
sleep in the bed i made.

i want to run
from you.
i want to fracture, bend backwards a little more,
break, fall to pieces.

i want to read poetic words typed out
and imagine fingers flying across the board, as if on the ivory of a baby grand.
Each smashed key pierces my lungs
and prompts my heart to make promises it can’t keep.

i need color to rip across canvas creating places i would hide, if hiding was the goal.
i need to jump straight high at light play in paintings, and come down on shattered knees
in a pile of clay shavings, beside the potters wheel.
Perhaps then I could ready myself to scream, plead and moan
as I paint your portrait, and bleed your memory on canvas.

written October 1st, 2016 4:45pm EST
My writing style is simple. Press the keys and just keep writing, what ever comes out, comes out……

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