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Here is this voice
it is just a whisper
would you turn your head
to lean in closer?

Imagination says
there is a space
where I am not a chore,
and a place
where I am not cold anymore

Reality says
there is an abyss,
where I am a water glass
that can't feel a kiss
as you turn your head
what did you miss?
Have you noticed
birds are in the trees
And they are flying
And singing
And living a thousand lives
Of which you know nothing,
That magic, have you noticed it?
In the way your eyes know to blink
and the moon knows to rise
and the world still blooms and spins
It lives
It thrives
Then
it dies.
If I could love
the limping
ugly
afraid
part of me
That I drag through the mud
and thorns

If I could let
the transparent
clawing
screaming
silhouette speak
Instead of kicking it
into the basement

If I could put
my deepest human essence
onto paper
for everyone to see

Then.
Then, I could be free.
Not everyone can be an “every-one”
But I am one who wants to dip my hands
In many fields of life
So as to be an omni-aid “when duty calls.”
Of course, I don’t always know what I get myself into,
And may not consider that I could regret doing too much
Or find myself doing what I don’t want to do.
Generally, if I could, I would monetarily give
To every figure standing vertically still along main areas of traffic
Who always appear to be seeking some kind of recognition.
Not that I stare, but when my pockets lack coins or bills,
I can only offer a silent word behind the steering wheel
For the ones standing in search of hope car-by-car.
I love to write, so why not write to a soldier or someone who could use a note?
Because, alas, rules and regulations for companies intimidate my passion
To do good yet follow procedures.
With my loves for drawing, writing, cleaning, fixing, puzzles,
I know there’s a lot I can contribute,
Not speaking haughtily but in respectful confidence,
But it also can come down to who would be receptively interested,
How often I could commit,
And am I giving more than I’m being given?
If I can give until I cannot give anymore,
As wearing as this may sound in words,
What else would I need?
The cure for failed love
is to re-love and to love more
for the most precious pearls
the diver must the deepest ocean-bed explore-

cry not nor should the lover lament
nothing is ever the same as before
the heart that is dauntless and patient
once anchored in true love--to the end it will adore.
I think
as artists
we owe a lot to pain.

Put on
a robe of thorns
and write

about the nice weather outside
and that delicious burger
you had today.

Write about happiness
when you're in pain-
beauty.
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