Will It Ever Stop

Everyone complains when it rains. Rain tantalizes,

fills me with anticipation and gratification,

recognition that redemption is on the horizon.

My soul burns with fire

hit with a live wire until

goose bumps rise on my skin

Wait and watch diamond sparkles water curtains fall

from a vivid bright lit up silver sky

iridescent gray shaded clouds move high

Sitting in a soft luminous green velour parsons chair

watching through my plate glass window

from my 16^th floor perch

Gazing through the sheets of rain

I am transposed to a different time,

Contemplation of gains or losses,

how much garbage can I toss or give away

find people to buy what I can no longer use

I compose a poem and string words along

wonder if I’ll truly belong anywhere or go anyplace ever again

No place to call my own, no home no

Love left me alone again soul searching for diversion

I enter seclusion and decide the rain is nothing but a mist

and the sun has won out

It’s time to get out of the house once more

Tripping The Light Psychosis

I’m going to start writing narrative poetry again because they say they don’t understand my poetry anymore, I’m not writing poems, I’m writing songs. People rarely get me because I’m always so off tune. I heard a few new stories about myself today, so many people telling stories. I wonder why so many stories are untrue and always unkind.

My neighbor said, “Hey let me share what people are saying about you. Many people living here say you’re very unstable, like Ms. Humble on two says this is true about you. I try to explain you’re just a little different, that your mind is very good and it’s not true you’re unstable. I tell them you worked hard all your life so you can collect a pension and how could they think someone unstable could think that one through. I know though, it took a lot of planning and calculation, but they don’t want to hear it.

Their minds are already made up, “Unstable,” you’re labeled. They say you’re really not very sane; you don’t do things the right way. I point out that you’ve been able to thrive, you calculate interventions, and you’re savvy to the system you survived. They see how colorful you are so they judge you by the colors you wear and are blind to your capability. They don’t see you know how to face adversity. They define you as flighty.

They judge you by their own veracity. They can’t see who you really are.

I am tired of this same old story. Well, better stop telling them then I say to my supposed friend. They can’t hear if they refuse to listen.

I’ll always be an outcast. What can I do? I keep making amends and trying to make new friends.

Leave me alone to sing my blues, tone deaf and off tune, alone, singing my blues.