I write in cryptic codes,
I could be straight,
But I know
You’ll draw
Your own conclusions,
Either way.
I’ll have those honest
Conversations
Heart to heart
But I’m not ready yet
To be an open book.
Cover of hieroglyphic scars,
I don’t mind if you find
Me five-thousand years
From now and figure me out.
I’m not obligated in this
Lifetime or any others to translate
The treasury of my dreams
For any passerby.
I don’t take anything at face value,
I calculate in facets.
We jewels show so many sides
For the sun to shine from,
Lighting each other up
From the inside.
I’ve been down and out
But don’t need to linger there.
I could write all my poems
From the hell of hungry
Sleeping on rooftops
Or doorways
To get out of the rain,
Subsisting on coffee,
Whiskey, words, and weed
For a week at a time.
The world loves a weak woman
With a thigh gap
And rib bones to count on,
But that’s in the past.
I wrote enough poems
About who I was back then.
I’m here now.
I’ve seen and done things
I don’t care to recall much
At the moment.
Might make me more
Interesting
To those looking for a fix,
The pain-body junkies,
But I’m keeping my chin up,
Eyes on the skies prize.
Tune in and self-actualize.
