I will preface this poem
with the statement
I am inebriated
(but the play opened tonight
and we had the cast party
and I have nothing until noon tomorrow
fight me)

I got to my driveway,
safe,
sound,
and still pleasantly warm
to a two-pointed buck
a few feet out of the woods.

He met my eyes.

We chatted,
or at least I rambled
in a shoddy excuse
for an Irish accent.

He flicked his ears a lot.

I'd consumed too strong a beer
to be out long
talking to deer
so I made my farewell.

He turned away before I did,
striding towards the darkness of the woods.
Bit by bit,
shadows swallowed him up,
even the bright white of his coloring underneath.

I had an honest to God
Disney Princess moment.

Writing angry speeches,
that will never be made-
tirades that stay in my own head

tempered,
they might change things for the better-
if I had the courage to say them

Dance is joy,
movement and life
united,
and a good choreographer
places no limits on its audience-
he lets us find the meaning we need
within the frame of the dance.

Look up James Sewell Ballet,
and revel with me.

On "Draft"

Once I wrote a poem,
celebrating my muse,
my inspiration,
the life from which my words sprung.

It was happy,
or at least melancholic
with a positive twist.

and now,
my thoughts turn to her again,
and it was just sad
and bitter
and help

Draft

"you, poet,
who is your muse?"

She, lover,

She is a hand print cooling
and fading
on a car too frozen to move.

She is the wind
gathering up the shredded leaves
to the tune of a broken heart.

I am fucking glorious.
I am no one's second-
I am not what you settle for-

I do not deserve that shit
I don't have to settle for your pity.
No.
Fuck you.

I get that you are trying
to compliment me,
to make me feel better
for being alone
but you've made it worse.

I've humored this for too long.

I know that I am not the greatest,
but I am no one's second.

"My eyes are nothing like the sun-
Coral is far more red than my lips red.
If breasts are white, well mine are dun.
If hair be wires, brown wires grow on my head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
yet no such roses see I in my cheeks.
In perfume there is more delight
than the breath that from my own mouth reeks.
I love to sing and speak yet well I know
that music has a far more pleasing sound.
I grant I never saw a goddess go
for when I walk, I walk upon the ground.
AND YET I am as fair
and any false with me belied compare!"

I may not be beautiful,
but I have a heart too big
and too full of care
to waste it on you.

So I will leave you to your mess,
and find someone
who thinks me his first choice.

I deserve nothing less.

They smile,
and tell me I'm pretty-
that I have an amazing body
("thanks! I'm a dancer!")
and that my kind heart
is practically unbelievable.
that they'd love to date me.

A few minutes later,
they send a quick text to their girlfriends.

I'm the second,
the one they coo about
when they're drunk
and I'm drunk and sad
(never the first without the second)
as if an academic affection
they would never act on
could make me anything
but vaguely annoyed.

I'll still laugh
and smile
because that's what they're going for.
And in the depths of disappointment
how can I do anything
but fulfill their wishes.

I'm not even mad,
because how I can begrudge their joy?
Just annoyed,
as I didn't need this knowledge.

I'll just curl up in a corner,
with some obsession,
pretending I am satisfied.