1/27/2017
I was looking for this poem in the archives, but to my astonishment, though it was published in WEEDS Art and Literary Journal, I never posted it here.
Hands from Heart to Prufrock
I would like to see with eyes unclouded
Clearly, truly.
What am I?
Nothing.
What will anyone remember?
What does anyone remember now?
A lunatic;
Crazed, perhaps?
Tear down the mirror with hand-tipped claws.
A mono possibly,
Mona,
Up the tree, a little tipped in the brain,
Simpleton.
Or even a red star burning out,
Terrible and sublime (sub-lime) for a while,
But in the end,
Quite disappointing.
I really am nothing
I think is thought of me.
Only a hollow voice and a thirsty ego.
A little too eager to please,
Soul-dehydrating fearful of
Falling short of your expectations.
At my best,
I am lucky:
a star smiled gently upon me.
But really I'm just mediocre
Ochre
Ocre
Nothing at all
But a small heart
Trying to grow through the cracks
In the sidewalk
Towards a sun
A billion miles away.
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