Its like swallowing flint
To be here.
Among the talented people
The children of broken homes
Motor homes
And hill-top homes.
From the highest of life
To the lowest of lows
Poets, word weavers,
Truth tellers all.
Its hard not to be jealous.
But I beg for the foresight
To see past the pretty phrases
Into the poet inside.
Into the person inside.
For we were all people,
Before we were poets
And all are merely equal
When under God.
Not to say you aren't special.
I know that you are.
But Lord let me put myself aside
To see Your peoples rhymes.
And then see the people inside.

For me to be more than a poet
To be a servant
A lover,
A mother.
I must first put aside the heart deep poison
That I am somehow better.