That's not
What you really
Meant,
You were
Trying to ask
How I make
A living
When you know
I don't have
A job.
You
Have a job
And rent
You have a car
& bills
And make
Enough money
To think
You are better
Off than
I am.
I breathe in
Like an Olympic
Athlete before
They win
The gold,
Like the lead actress
On opening night
For Phantom,
And let it
Out
Before
Letting you have
It,
Because
You DID
Ask.
I make poetry
By bleeding
My soul
Through my pen
Saving lives,
Making grown
Men cry
And
Making women
Believe for
The first time
In their
American Beauty
Lives
That they are
Worthy
Of Love & Praise.
I make art
Because the energy
Of living life
Is overwhelming
In it's devastating
Beauty
&
Connects me
To a place
Where that ugly
Little nagging voice
That screams those
Criticisms from
Childhood,
Things we hope
No one ever knows
SHUTS UP.
So my hand
Moves as
The Muse
Bids me
Between
Midnight
And 3am
Usually,
To make poetry
To do art
To make the
World
A better place
Than the last
Time
I laid my head
Down,
Doing what
I love.
What
Do you
Do?
To move
That uncomfortably
Inside the prison
Of your logic
You ask,
"But
How do you
Make ends
Meet?"
I have
One job
On this earth
To listen
And act
Accordingly.
To listen
To the Divine
In the present
Moment
…
To let
My hands
My body
Move from
That sacred
Place,
Making art
Making poetry
Making love
And I let
God make
The rest
Like
Ends meeting.
