Light That Torch

It
Might be
A manifesto,
A mirror,
A middle finger,
Maybe,
Just a prayer—
Loud, bare, human.

Speak this
On a stage…

Grit

You see me as irrelevant.

What is the allure?

Of fishnet seams,
Of coifed hair,
Of fragrance lofted,
Of delicate looks,
Of structured beauty—
A Monet
In galleries light.

What is the disdain?

Of a snot ring,
A tat of insignificance,
A jail scar of experience,
A record a mile long,
An addiction you didn’t choose,
A discourse of tangled love,
Painful piercings
In broad daylight.

Am I?

Irrelevant?
What is
real?
What is
today?
What is
your future?
What is
mine?

What Is?

My reality,
My rebellion,
My consequences,
Oh, Walt
can you answer
my questions?
(Disney or Whitman)
One of you,
please?

My future?

My
Scars
My
Life
My
History
To
Unfold.
Raw—
Exposed—

I Am?

What
are My
desires?

My
ultimate…
outcome?

Declarations
of self—
owned.

I wear too much makeup.
I wear Salvation Army
like a tortured Monet.

But I wear
Myself—
nakedly

My
skin

is a tapestry.

Who am I?

My body—
a Monet
of who
I am.
Sometimes,
A ruin.
Sometimes
A masterpiece undone.

Don’t defile me.

I am

Me.
Love me,
Or
leave me,
alone …

Walt,
I Love You—
both
expressions of
fantasy, truth, beauty
I do not deserve.
I am
your muse.

But,
I do not
need you

I
Am.

This,

my life

is my grit
I
Embrace.

When I paint,

grit
is my brush

Reality
is my
portrait.

I am—
Art
Alive.