“Psychics can see the color of time, it’s blue.”
that is what I wrote on the wall
while I sat in the kitchen sink,
waiting for the rain to stop.
I was four years old and still fit in that sink on South Street,
nevermind how I knew what a psychic was,
or that I knew how to write…
let’s just say that I knew things.
as childhood unfolded,
I knew other things with such certainty,
others learned to avoid me
as though I was a pandemic plague
and out to get them, put them under my spell,
or eat their brains!
I knew I was Coming of Age,
when I learned I can make things move,
make events happen,
and when I learned that it would benefit me…
I was punished
by Going Mute.
as I was Becoming a Woman,
I knew pink organized in bubbles
only to float away in one’s dreams,
but dreams can be lucid
and be moulded to your heart’s desires.
I Became a Woman.
I knew I was Entering Wisdom,
when I learned music dances to my breath
while the sound of the abandoned wailed angst
in my bones and I could free them
by teaching them Love.
they cast yellow shades of cowardess,
in the shadows that forever followed them.
they should have learned to Listen…
for, I’ve learned to speak with my pen.
– – – – –
written for the muse is IN