Happy New Year, Fellow Writers and Creatives!
How Long Will You Write?
I will bleed black ink on dead
until all the weeds,
I desired to keep,
leave my fingertips and onto freedom papers.
Until the vines cease the asphyxiation that I allowed.
Until I relinquish the compound leaf
that lost its midrib,
once dignity leaked out of the petiole.
Until I’m no longer ashamed
of the joy I feel when passing rustling
greens, yellows and auburns.
Until the internal ballyhoo of my haiku’s,
clinging to the roots of feather pens,
holler something naked and bold.
Until I’m restored, full, set free
full willow-treeing in my phoenix skin.
Until my hands shake and my skin wrinkles
ready for old time slumberin’.
Until my eyes are tired of watering new plants
and seeing new stories to tell.
Until my heart decides to retire
and my soul yearns for a new beginning,
I will bleed black ink on freedom papers.