I gotta story to tell,
a million of them.
I need to write, need to write
but life, survival, obstacles
block the way, that linear
line of thought, that which
inspires, although if a thought
were to come across to others
now, it would be a convoluted
tapestry of impenetrable meaning.
And I can imagine, like years ago
comments like "where the hell did
that come from?" or "it's dark, like
Plath" and never having read Plath,
much. But still - I need to write
a poem, let the answers come on
the breeze, on the winds of change,
on the turn of seasons. Let the heart
and gut instinct change my life for the
better, God knows it needs changing.