My writing is a passion.
One that leads me down paths
in a random-like fashion.

I do not choose the depths
at which my emotions soar.
Words look for the hidden truths

of people I once adored;
they slipped through my grasp;
open and shut another door.

I can not write of the asp,
serpent of hate and dread.
Around my heart it will clasp

pulling me deeper, deeper… dead.
The dark blanket of sorrow
shrouds my soul. It spreads,

blotting out the sun of tomorrow.
I will not pen from the ink of drugs.
the smells alone furrow my brow.

Instead, I like coffee in a large mug.
I shall not share my friendships;
those soft and private hugs

that keep my heart free of rips.
They are my treasure; safe and kept
tightly held in my loving grip.

I refuse to say I have a family wrapped
close around my thoughts.
The road has been long and I’ve wept,

bringing about pain in the night.
Cold memories fill my journey;
things corrected; those never made right.

Stories of my life like bitter honey
fill my veins with fallen stars;
comforting words are all bologna.

I will not pen from my heart.
It has locked the door on this reality.
My new curiosity starts.

Reaching for an alternate sexuality
I find things my heart has given up to the moon;
love, friendship, caring, life… vitality!

New emotions are pooled
into thick streams of adjectives
nouns and verbs. A monsoon

of ideas, desires, and drives
fills my every waking second
with the need to bring my words to life.

My committed heart beckons
for that hope to keep me strong.
Words are valued more than the sacred diamond.

Where can one find anything wrong
with the ache to explore;
the hard pull to belong?

I find my voice in this core
of a new life. My reflection
mirrors my heart song, as the words soar.

Tags: Ars Poetica, Terza Rima