I don’t need money.
I need feelings,
words — words chosen with care,
flowers called thoughts,
roses named stay with me,
dreams that trees inhabit,
songs that make statues dance,
stars that whisper in lovers’ ears.
I need poetry —
that magic which burns the harshness of words,
awakens emotion, and creates new colors.
My poetry is as alive as fire,
coursing through my fingers like beads on a rosary.
I do not pray, for I am the poetess of misfortune,
silent, sometimes, in the birth-pains of the hours.
I am the poetess who screams and plays with her screams,
the poetess who sings and cannot find the words.
I am the dry straw upon which sound falls,
the lullaby that makes children weep,
the pride I allow to fall apart,
the metallic cloak of a long prayer
from a past grief that never sees the light.
