The Mask
A thousand masks I wear
yet none of them are me
for I am buried deep within
afraid for you to see
Far below the surface
beneath the layers deep
my soul cries out in sadness
and mournful tears I weep
I lost myself so long ago
and somewhere along the way
I learned the art of pretense
like chameleons at play
Secrets are my game
assuming a new face
concealed by my deception
you think me a disgrace
Yet I long for you to find me
to hear what I can't say
to listen to my heartsong
and love me anyway
But there is no magic kiss
nor knight upon a steed
strong enough to penetrate
the better part of me
The Poet In Me
I’ve been known to be
inspirations flowing
through my veins
energy of the muse.
The word interpreter,
I breathe metaphors
and paint pictures
with lyrical destinations
on blank maps.
The voracious reader,
I’ve heard my voice
astounding thunderclaps
in rudimentary dreamscapes
and rebellious realism.
The doubtful visionary,
I’ve spoken
silent affirmations
in unknown languages
understanding the future.
The anti critic,
I’ve sold not my soul
for a good review
accepting the bad
as the challenge it is.
The poetic archivist,
I’ve known
what was read
to be reiterated
in past anthologies.
The unknown author,
I speak through my words
which speak for themselves
and resound in you
while residing in me.
The validated versifier,
I proclaim
the passionate poetess in me
speechless!
A Writer At Heart
Words
emotional expressions
inherent deep within spirit.
Passion are these words
undeniably expressed,
shared, proclaimed
in stanzaic precision.
The writer
sensitive, intuitive
feelings arise, awaken
born from within
depths of the soul.
A soul unknown
if not for their words.
Ego revisited
firmly understood
and happily embraced.
The writer paints words
with a knowing
of authentic self
creatively expressed.
Memories, dreams
parade the mind
as streaming videos.
These visual scenarios
breathe life into the heart
and have no choice
but to be reborn.
Reflections
a glimpse into the heart
where the writer resides
words a mirror to the soul.
A soul which lives
within the mind
without fear.
The heart
pumps words
through the veins
never missing a beat.
And the writer writes
to a different beat
only he hears.
I have come across so many poets who tell me that they have hundreds of poems that they have written yet have never done anything with them. The poems are kept in boxes or folders and left there never to be born much like a bird in a cage never to be set free. The comments I hear are “they are just too personal for me” or “No one would understand them.”
Let’s take a look at each argument. They are just too personal. As writers everything we write has a personal element to it and as poets we express our deepest thoughts and feelings by writing these personal words. I’m not saying you have to dust off those poems and start submitting them for publication but to leave them grow old and unseen to me is a grave mistake. What you have to realize is that because they are so personal and drawn from life experience, by showing them to the world you may just help someone else.
The second argument “No one will understand them." Understanding poetry has nothing to do with trying to figure out what the poet is saying. When reading poetry it is about applying what we are reading to our own lives. How does that particular poem make you feel and what scenarios does it conjure up in your mind? Poems are meant to allow you to think and journey inside yourself. Granted there are poems out there which are created in order to teach and tell stories of history and otherwise but the majority are experiences captured in words and created to be shared and treasured.
I do understand that for the poet, poetry drawn from personal experiences is of a sacred genre all its own. I’ve also been there. However not sharing your gift of words scares me more than opening your heart and allowing people to see inside so that they may be helped in some way by what you have written.
So, dust off the poetry and show it to the world or at least to me.
