Vibrancy

Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that no one else would say
because I’m me
and

I am wild
like the lions on the savannah
searching for food
that truly the cheetahs
have killed
but I’ll take it
if it means surviving

Life just the way I want to live it
even if it means
shooting out words
that everyone else wants to say
but won’t
I will because

I am wild
and no one can tame
the fire in my soul,
no one can bury this burden
of yearning that I hold,
so I must dig it out myself,
I must be myself.

Mouth

the same one that kisses
each daughter’s cheek
and whispers, “I love you”
a thousand times a week

the lips that open and close
over organically local food
and delectable chocolate
that brings on the best mood

the crooked and aging teeth
that bare themselves in grins
filled with laughter and love
and inglorious sins

this mouth is surely sore with vice
though can just as easily love
because what I say is who I am
not just who you were thinking of.

Carte du Jour

what’s the difference? simple, really.
with you, everything is vague and humorous.
with them, direct and consequential.
for me, I would rather take my chances
with a small taste of brutal honesty than
with a whole menu of unknowns.

it amazes me how they, having never
been that close to me, seem to understand
that better than you, who have
opened (and closed) the menus on the food
we share so many times that you’ve
forgotten that I have been here all along.

perhaps you will notice my absence
(perhaps not). either way, I will be taking
delectable nibbles from the dishes they share,
throwing in my hot spices, my sweet vanilla,
and together we will create a carte du jour
that you might admire, but will never taste.

Admission

calling me out in front of them all
isn’t the way to get to the truth
because it’s more polite for me
(as my mother always said)
to admit nothing at all
than to lie to your face

your reaction is as ironic as if
you’d admitted me into your classroom
to run it one day (my way)
only for you to pat me on the back
and thank me for the gift
(the gift that in three years
you wouldn’t allow me to give you)

but I will seal my lips this one time
(though I admit you know me well)
and use the scapegoat I have stood by
all these months, tucking it in my
pocket in case of further inquisitions,
though you and I both know why
I’ll (you’ll) never admit the truth.

Filter

Am I too much like my father,
words spilling out of my mouth
as if a dam has broken at the
back of my throat,
flooding onlookers with whatever comes,
whether they want to listen
or would rather dash away,
scrambling for their own dignity
amidst the inundation?

Instead I criticize those who
keep their reservoirs behind bricks,
letting loose only small streams,
maintaining the walls
and freezing their vibrantly harsh
thoughts, never once
letting them pour out
for the rest of us to wade through.

But if I build it back, brick by brick,
trapping the intense waves
as the wind slaps and stings them,
as the rivers of my mind
pour deeper, darker water into the lake,
I know the dam will burst again
and I will gush through, swimming
with the words that make me who I am,
inviting whoever dares to join me.