Do with them what you will
I am ceasing to create disguises
another mask over another lie
painted and waiting quietly in the corner to take its place in a poem
what kind of writer lies in her work?
the kind that is scared of the fire the truth brings
who is comfortable and content where she is,
like an overgrown, complacent housecat sitting in the sun
who would perhaps like some cream, or a fat mouse
but is too lazy and sun-dazed to move.
here.
take these words, the honest ones, the ones that have never
seen a paintbrush or felt the papier-mâché mask
and do with them what you will.
the sunlight is too warm and I am jumping off the garden wall
and taking a risk in search of something better.
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