I can’t stand the miss./
You. The emptiness. So I /
lay in bed instead.

I’ve found diaries./
I left them alone. I’ve learned./
Old dairies stink worse.

Some say stop
the poetic madness,
the unfolding of my life,
the exposure of myself.

“What’s the purpose?”
they ask.
“Are you trying for
attention?
Affirmation?
Appreciation?
Are you delivering
a message?”
“Don’t stop writing,”,
they say,
“but stop publishing.”

Yet, this was my goal:
To prove I could,
daily,
write.
Be inspired.
And,
in turn,
inspire.

I echo a fiddler
(Raise the roof!):
I should more easily
pull out my beard
*(if I had one)
and uncover my head
*(if that was my religion).
So has my writing
become
to me.

But she
begs,
Bitte!
for me
to continue
my poetry.
“Word goo”
she calls it,
as though it stuck
something together.

Why does she ask?
Is it for some
subliminal control
she maintains over me?
Is it for some
feeling
welling up deep inside
when she reads
and knows
she IS the muse?
(And she has been
for hundreds of these,
at least lately.)

Is it because
in my words
she becomes
immortal?

Does it matter?
Foes,
critics,
nay sayers,
dream slayers,
children,
X’s
cry to halt
creativity.

Friends,
supporters,
believers
beg
to differ.
Beg
for more.
Beg
me
to continue.
And so I do.

It’s nearly high noon./
There’s no way to know your shape./
Are you still okay?

I stand at cliff’s edge,/
ready 2 leap in2 the unknown./
Not alone./
I extend/
my hand,/
but she’s not found./

A casual tourist,/
she seeks/
another’s view./
I retreat.

She craves honesty./
She shares praising, fun emails./
Her joy resonates.

I cant control me./
Like a flood, I push through pain./
I’m still too selfish.

I set her smiling./
She gets relaxed and happy./
So does someone else.

Just lie there, amazed./
Feel caressed like you’d wished. No./
She’s not satisfied.

2 red drinking cups./
2 napkins, 2 wrappers, scratch./
I didn’t but should.

OR
I didn’t. Should I?