HerStories

Will you strum, Ariel,
The tangarray tangents from her porcelain dripping lips,
Soothing me over, in lullabies of haunting Spanish tune...
Because is it mixed in with Poe
And Poe
And me...
And that is the "Angry Johnny" Poe,
And Edgar Allen,
And then, yes...Myself.

Or Plath. Or Virginia. Or Blake.
And then...take those words(; ours)..
And weave them..
Weave them into the telling tales they are..
Accompany them...
Write them...
Embody them...
In melody.
And another.
And another.
Over
And over
And over, again.

Cuz I don't believe you.
And because each one,
Is just another Infinite Thing.
Oh, you, Infinite Thing.

My mind...
Has got, so much in it, at any given moment.
That is more than some,
And less than others...

And the lack of time in the day,
Simply signifies,
I need a perspective change;
Simple, that is, when you remember this.

And I am hard.
Hard on myself.
I realize this with the scrutiny I bare,
From my own brashness, justifying it, as if it is the world screaming against me...

And I can't tell..
Can't tell..
If it is because sometimes, it does..
And I bare that..
All too well.
All too well.

But the passings create so many moments afflair, with affair..
And brashness and wings,
And dancing,
And fluttering...
Just become, apart of it!
I get lost,
In all the stories told everyday; Her Stories,
Her mind.
HER.
MINE.

Her.
With Tangerine Velvet Skies,
And plenty of "why's",
And a mind that never tires,
While simultaneously manages,
To always exhaust.
The rate at which I'm burning energy, is not being met, by the rate at while I am fueled by incoming energy...

(That's my guess)...
So...
I'm
All Ways,
Tired.
Seeking to change that,
But stories get told;
HerStories.
HisStories.
Making
History. History. Tales...told.

I'm putting my "pen",
Down now.
On to ready. Study. Pass
Out...
Whiles the stories continue.
And I continue...
To read them.