March 16, 2000: Origins of the higher power
My imagination wants to paint—to let go of everything and paint. This mind of mine travels four hundred miles a minute—I rarely, if ever, can explain what I feel. My heart is almost never seen unless I know your reasons of asking. I have no anger—only pain, visions from far away places that say, “Put your guard up.” I don’t walk in fear—I walk in shame, giving away my soul knowing its value has no worth. I see the coward I’ve become—knowing the masks I wear, the writer and painter—are the avenues of peace that lift the sun.

If I am to write poetry—I want it to be for a thousand days. To bring unto the paths I cross, reflections of a passer by. It’s not my wish to command tears from my eyes, nor shall the soul be worn in places mocked by stages decorated with darkness, ladders and stairs, curtains, clocks or broken hearts. “To write poetry,” I think to myself, “For a thousand days…” A long sought after grin becomes the mask on my face—for a moment, I understand why…only to learn life goes on.