Shadowtree3Who is this writer,
what makes her tick?
What heats her blood;
makes it run carmine, thick?
What causes stir deeply,
where emotions run wild
what sickens her
to the core,
of her inner child?
What fills her, what warms her…
when ugly prevails?
What is the scent
that can fill
the most stagnant,
windless sails?
Why must she write?
What does she have to say,
that she must free from fingertips
pressing, potent words
imparted, permission-less
unto your day?

True Art

When a writer is true to the artist’s form

It’s not rare to illicit critique and scorn

When a writer divulges unedited prose,

It often lacks beauty like an unscented rose

When a writer holds back words underlying the dream

What is finally unleashed is an inaudible scream

If she edits her piece like her dress before church

it may haunt uninvited, like a predators’ lurch