I can’t color inside the lines

Sprawled out on a mountainside, shrouded in leaves and half-severed vines, I confess to be a wild thing, but you do not hear me.

Spill my blood to write fresh poems that defy rhyme and meter, each word alive, dripping with fervor, but you never read me.

Shouting/marching/fighting for compassion ’til my throat is dry, legs are weak, mind grows fatigued, yet you fail to see me.

In the soft glow of the afternoon, I sing a sad refrain, but the meaning is lost while the melody remains, so you do not feel me.

Still onward I careen, hopes unfettered, dreams undisturbed, for I learned long ago not to bury my soul in any single place or person.

And For My Next Trick …Happiness

Sad songs soothe me, whether summer days spent soaking in the sun, or winters shut up indoors enveloped in a good book, warm blankets, hot tea,
My soul only knows despair with short intervals of joy.
Madness, maybe,
But you can recharge my battery in the woods, the forest floor my corridor to some unexplained source of vitality.
That or let me breathe in salty ocean air,
Drown my old self in the cold, dark, blue of the Pacific,
Rise from the waves anew.
Born again and again in and out of your arms, watch me take off
like Apollo 11.

Balancing the day and the night, the light and the darkness, emotion and might.