From pen to paper

I am ink.
Maybe the Blackest you’ve ever seen.
More permanent than bleach stains
I do not fade.
I only get darker
Your worst nightmare
I am.
This is why you hate me
Because I cannot be erased.
Because once drawn
I shall not be moved.
This is why others love me
Because I am forever.
My Black does not leave
Because I am ink.
Permanent and everlasting.
You have tried to erase me
You will always fail.
I will always remain.
Permanent and everlasting.
You have tried to leave me out
To move around me
As if I do not exist..
You have tried to cover me.
“Correct” me
With white
As if I may disappear
Under such an absence of color.
As if I will not remain
But I do.
Blacker than ever.
Because I am ink.
Permanent and everlasting.
This does not sadden me.
No.
Because I am the center of your attention
I am envied
I am loathed
At the same time
Because of this
I am aware of my sovereignty.
I am the gift
that the cursed cannot have.
I am ink.
Permanent and everlasting.

From Pen to Paper

meet me at the well

If I were to
pour myself into a cup
and offer you a drink
if you were to drink of me
you would feel
exactly how I feel
in this moment
and in an instant
my energy would quench you.

I am the good girl
who hated the good in herself
who sold her flesh to the Devil
between gasps
and thick thighs
she dove right into sin.

my muse.. Anne Sexton

Anne 

you adorn my shoulders

like shiny red silk

I am familiar with the feel of you

as if we’ve met

as if we’ve held hands..

I read you

and I experience you.

I am your kind.

 

 

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the pussy explains itself

you may think it odd
but I refer to her vagina
as Oz…

the great and powerful

pink or purple…

I used to wonder
about the flavor..

if it’d be sweet or salty
or bitter

but the pussy explains itself.

I used to wonder
what it’d be like
to dip in the ocean
that’s clear or off white

but the pussy explains itself.

I used to wonder
after the first try
why it stayed on my mind
day and night

but the pussy explains itself.

I used to wonder
about that look in her eyes
from between my own thighs
as she watched the drool drip from my lips

but the pussy explains itself.

I used to wonder.
I used to try to figure it out
but I realized
there is no way to find the answer
no book, no potion, no magic, no sign

the pussy explains itself.

poetically well endowed

I am a writer.
So excuse me when I drift off during our conversations.
I’m constantly thinking of words and where to put them…. Or if I lost them, where to find them.
You see I misplace my words a lot.
I’ll leave them laying around here and there
under this and that…
When they belong on a page.

I am a writer.
When I write, I purge.
Thoughts feelings and emotions bursting out of me like a volcanic eruption.
Emotions escaping the confines of my mind and into melodic words perfectly placed in the order I like them.

I am such a writer.
I dream in print.
Sentences and articles.
My dreams cannot be seen, they are to be read.
My dreams are not written in English, no.
My dreams are written in….me.
And if you don’t understand me you won’t understand my dreams or my words.
My thoughts or my pain…

I am only a writer.
So excuse me while I stagger when I read me to you.
My words don’t sound the same coming from my mouth as they do in my head.
Because butterflies speak through me and I tend to misplace them again and again.
But I’ll find them and I’ll start over…
Because I am the writer.
And I can do that.

I’ve fallen and I can’t get up

I keep falling.

scraping my knee against the concrete

skin shattering
slowly

leaving behind sparkling pieces
of me

that could have been whole