Tattoos in Mayberry

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I've read her poetry too...
I cherish her
my bright shooting star,
of a Facebook friend.
I have gotten wasted and almost deleted, all ties
by severing her mutual friend account. 
I have not, nor would I ever actually do it...
Her ability to speak to me
and, her other readers.
To speak directly from her heart
The vast lineage of her sentence structure., 
the rippling cadence of her voice,
and her high command of phonetic nuances.
is formidable poetic weaponry  
butressed by her courage
to rip her heart from out of her chest, 
and slap it down on the stage.
Daring us to step on it, stab it,cradle it
do as we will.. I admire her 
but aren't sure I have available inside of me,
close to the courage or degree of trust
to open up my chest  
and rip out my beating heart for the perusal of strangers. ..
That's why she's a great poet.
And, I am a poetic hobbyist
a hack
a tool
A limerick writing fool.
Fishing for feelings, with my dull harpoon.
In a  spurious, and tiresome effort
to  spear a literary fish like you.
I drift along, then drop my anchor in a  dead pond....
I'm convinced it's harder to be a woman
because we all
make life  harder on them.
So, maybe being the battered
and abused, the forgotten
the last picked at dodge ball.
Maybe being the one plus, misfit,
sitting at the end of the bench,
provides a better vantage point,
a clearer,deeper understanding 
generates the painful memories,
creating  powerful,raw materials to bleed  on the page.
I might have to accept I am
destined to exist in the shadows,
on the fringes,
fishing from a dry dock. .
My role to be faking it until I make it,
as cheerleading loved one. .
Wading into the  tepid, murky water
trying to catch fish with palsy hands..
Waiting for a big fish to bite
and strip me of my little rod and reel with 
baited hook. 
drifting rudderless in a dead sea.

Another no count, 
phony baloney,
songwriting wanna be
a blow hard story teller,
with no solid gold credentials,
or million watt smile
dim compared to the brighter stars and bigger draws,.
To all the heart wrenching poets, 
prancing dancers emotive,singers hypnotic,,actors

Fodder for the platoons 
of red line pencil critics slinging mud 
 I'm coming clean
as an artistic slacker. I not only
don't do, but I often dont think while I'm not doing it. 
To make matters more dire, I am a piker as a promoter
I am a middle aged cynic,afraid to give away my, one and only heart
Art school triple film majors, and music makers at the top of their game,
I can only look at you from behind the monkey bars.
Whipping gorilla poo at you
to deflect and distract you away from all  I lack. 
 Safe, warm and dry, you poet laureates exist,
behind the glass, in your 
winner's circle reserved exclusively for
this year's creative class of winner champions 
what year was it,  you first were inducted into the Circle of Champions?
Stay tuned for most generous airtime
to further explore your success story..
I would love to surprise you with my success story..
But, not to worry,
with a long litany of mediocrities, 
a track record of muffled, coyote howls
you'll likely be waiting a long year
at your fresh blood studios to audition, record,
 then sign, book and bill me
as your next awe inspiring, mind bending, breakthrough, devestating,
new talent.  who guarantees to rip my human heart out 
and slap it down bloody and hard, on the world stage, 

Buddy Bee Anthony

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