No longer stopped
Without paper and writing device
Turn off a film about
Thompson
Who mapped out the Columbia River
Once
Married an Indian lady
From Canada
Mapped out more of North America
Sometimes
I have to talk before I go to sleep
With Notepad
It never talks back
Doesn't stifle the poet inside
Who has to write what she thinks
With date and time
With no rhyme and rhyme
Whenever it happens
No secrets for a poet
Will blurt it all out
As though projectile vomiting
Or explosive diarrhea
A big cyst ready to burst
Let the pus flow
As there is no clean
Without the dirty
Sometimes
Life gets more difficult
Then better days come
The emesis is cleaned up
Diarrhea flushed away
Cyst drained and healed without a scar
Happy days are here again
Until another poem written by me
Loses some family member I got
Christmas presents for anyway
Even though
I wrote the poem that broke the camel's back
Months before Christmas
Before I attempted a relationship again
With people I have to put the sun screen and sun glasses
On to protect myself from their shining suns
They don't want me to tell the world my tale of woe
So they go
Sometimes
A long time ago
I was told that children are seen and not heard
I was quiet
I held it in
I was a victim of incest
The dirty little secrets of this world
The "don't tell your sister as it would break her heart"
Kind of rapes
The "don't tell your mother or I'll have to leave"
Kind of rapes
The "don't tell anyone what we've done or you're in trouble"
Kind of rapes
Have left me open to communicating via poetry
To anyone who will read it
Because poetry is feeling turned into something positive
A way to vent
A total expression of the mind
Unleashed
As though my young boxer dog
Running 25MPH up the hill to the
Helix Cemetery
Sometimes and always
I will never be stifled again
Too old if people want to leave you
For expressing yourself
Don't read the stuff
If you don't like what my mind
Rolls out
It's that easy
Glittery and sleazy
Like Ke$ha
On a Tuesday
It's a new day
To never be oppressed again
That's what being a poet is like to me
My $5 a month professional help
I recommend it to everyone
Because even if your family leaves you
A poet will live as a poetry bum
Writing poems about broken glass
In dirty alleys in Muskogee Oklahoma
At 16 down there on her own
I've been a poet 52 years of my life
Not likely to stop
Even if it means I am disowned by family or friends
My last guy lived through my poetry
That could have cut him to the bone
But he was a man
He left my poetry alone
And I loved him in spite of my poetry
Just the same way he loved me
Now he is dead and gone
But I'm still here
The poetry goes on...
