This house was made for morning poets,
more simple than simile, stalled out
in the salacious glare of original light.
A hard-hearted fact I know about you: You’re keen.
Nothing gets past you, you grasp it all so easily
and you can articulate it, but you don’t.
You’re afraid your boldness will unsex you.
You’re a parade of punctilios, girl
a mélange of identical protests—androgynous
in dress, with the still-beating heart of a Victorian.
That’s why you measure class
in shoe brands & physical authenticities.
The grease in your hair today will be
tomorrow’s white flag of surrender
creeping down the crown of your horizon
and aging will seem less a cost
and more a prize.
There is more to life than hearing the root
and cheering back, sometimes
the pain is the reward,
though it never seems it at the time.
Mothers say it takes all kinds
but truth is, it takes courage to be all kinds.
To be every you, absent of image,
simbiont to all metaphor,
to spill your inside worlds
across a page, the volumes of you,
will only cost an assault on Ego.
Lance the blister and watch the pus run.
And this too shall pass
is the most honest cliché,
not just a chant to ease suffering
but a reason to stir from your slumber
each day. Living poetry
is nothing like coffee in your rose garden,
but you’ll adjust, like we do,
when we get out of the house in the morning.