With every poem I write
I’m putting myself
On the line
With no place to hide
Except the space
Between words
Giving breath to a flow
Of thought
Automatically spilling ink
As if the pen in hand
Has a mind of its own
I’ve been the sparrow
And the crow
The rebel and the wife
A headline story
Sound bites
Underneath the layers
Of dust
The many renditions
Of myself
