Self Sketch

I try sketching a self portrait in words,
Poetry and art,
Sculpting my own statue out of stone,
Critical and analyzing,
I drive my pen a little too hard,
The brush too far and the chisel too deep,
The words distort and the sculpture suffers,
The portrait stall,
Diffusing distress dwells,
Like a silent veil,
Over the pieces of art,
The soul of literature,
The sound of the chisel,
Suddenly silenced,
The paint brush and pen,
Stopped in their strides,
Pushing the lines of existence,
Of art dissolving into death,
Of life and the freedom to live…

Drifting Hues

I’m a biker girl who wears no leather,
I’m a gypsy who lies on heather,
With not a frill, fancy or feather,
I’d live in a dungeon or tower,
Far from the noise in fair weather,
I’d drive on waiting for no breather,
High on life and spirits or either…

Cryin on with the winds and water,
I’ll roll into the earth and matter,
Drillin into deep sea like a mad hatter,
Not frettin bout the thinner or fatter,
Thinkin that can’t there be a falter,
For every once there does come a halter…

Laughin on and spinnin all faster,
Flyin high with a petal of aster,
With ain’t no worry or pester,
Me playin at bein my own master,
As funny as a live livin jester,
London or the far Lancaster…