I never write anymore and I really should because I love it. I had some weird heart flutter the other night while trying to sleep and that one stupid thing inspired an entire poem.
12:00 a.m. and I sit here
waiting for sleep to take me,
a fluttering bird in my throat
that urges me to cough
out all the monolithic insecurities
weighing down my scale.
I feel the primordial need
for you to say I am full of worth,
although even enunciated clearly –
each word bit off
at the chew –
I would not believe it.
On the obverse side of me
is the hippie, the quasi-Buddha,
the peacemaker in a saffron robe,
(a virulent tangerine,
the shade of new prescription bottles –
they say centuries ago
that color was chosen
because it was the only dye available) —
but I left her behind in Colorado.
I wonder what she is doing now.