I felt like sharing some more poetry with you all to tell another story. Just like my last one this one has a beginning middle and end. Enjoy.

Warning: The first Poem is pretty intense and graphic. FYI

What am I Here

What am I, here, naked before the mirror
trapped in a dream of becoming and being,
written as some dime store rag
of breasts, of cock, of hips, hair
all curving and confused in the glare of a bulb
dangling by a braided wire, shadows blanket fled,
leaving me abandoned to the folly of what I have done
and the regrets of what I have yet to do
hanging semi-erect between hairless legs,
taunting me with genitals’ manifest destiny,
always yearning for that shore out beyond the horizon
where answers lie thick as blood, thick as the delusion
I was fine where I was or fine where I am,
screaming for something to unchain me,
weeping in time with my budding breasts
that alter once familiar landscape
into some half finished mixing, neither one nor the other, yet,
reaching out towards the glass in a question and,
tears falling, awaiting the answer.

Masks

I am tired of masks
playing a part
reciting someone’s lines
letting others tell me who I am
so that now, at the moment of defiance
I don’t know
never sure of the face
that daily looks back
heart aches
the weight of despair
dragging me down deeper lower
trapped by the tyranny of others,
who am I without someone’s guidance
to scare me into silence?
which mask I am supposed to wear?
what would best suit you?
won’t you tell me?

I turn to you
to find me
have trouble finding my own face
among the panoply of false fronts
dumped upon me,
blind touch tracing new lines
without patina stain paint
closing the lid on that box of masks
that game of compliance
that tires me

I will play another game today.

Crying Soul

When a part of your soul
You thought was most carefully hid
Cries out simply to be
What do you do?
I figure the standard response
Is to fight it down and burry it deeper
Till all that remains
Is a ghost of a memory.
Yet when that voice arises
Immortal from its grave
Do you continue in your combative folly
Or perhaps, rather embrace it warmly
Letting its voice sing unhindered?
I found I did neither
When my chance came
But rather took tentative, fearful steps
Trying to come to amiable terms
With a resurrected song
That denied the mirrors truth.
Folly or wisdom it may be,
But I find myself too tired to fight
And too afraid to be free.

Fragile Wings

Slowly, the miracle of emergence begins
hidden dark among leaves.
Ill-fitting confines tested,
throws itself against the once protective,
the struggle to break free.
The shell contorts
color streaking against the membrane
until…at last…
something shoots free.
The agonizing process,
prying out of the old form
to stretch wet wings
sparkling in the sun like dew,
lift gently into the fiery blue
spun of dreams,
strengthened by strife
fills me again with wonder
at the miracle of their bright rebirth.

Feminine Speech
For Stacey

Furtively
I watch her
certainly for her beauty
yet also
to learn
the delicate interplay,
the body’s language
of feminine speech,
so I can with
stuttering actions and
breaking gestures
begin to speak
in the quiet voice
of the little girl
awakening
inside.