I take my pen and dip it into my heart
because it is so hard to live without beauty.
Dreaming is surviving because there is no other road for me.
I caught you with the poppies, and you caught me with the red shoes.
I dance to bring the sun up for the world.
I sing to wash dishes.
And write poems for emancipations.
I think I have got a lot of menial work to do.
That is why I hide in my writing.
Thinking is freeing and so is love.
I have both in abundance and seek out olives.
Transcendence is just a pickle away.
Dreaming is surviving, that is why I think they have raised the minimum wage
and put out want-ads for poets.
Blue is the color of my skin.
Red is the color of my rose.
Soon I will speak to the melancholy who write prose