From a Private, Private Poet.

When I share with you
my art
it is not
for you to judge.

When I share with you
my words
it is not for you to review
like a bespectacled, khaki-clad
Times columnist.

I'm aware that I'm no Hemingway
my words are rough
tough
they don't always flow like water over rocks
in cool summer springs
because cool is not my thing.

I am white, I'm a mom,
I drive an SUV
and yes
I may
or may not
have a child enrolled in soccer.

To behave as if an artist must have a degree of street cred
if my hair must be dirty
and my T-shirts ironic
to give my art some sort of depth...
well that just shows your small mind.
Not mine.

Sometimes I use big words, as the mood strikes me,
but most of the time
I'm simply a spigot;
I let the words form, gently swirling inside, before they begin to bubble up,
and I wash the dishes faster, corral the kids into the living room,
so I may be at a computer
or some paper
when it overflows,
and then I just try,
I reach and strain,
to rescue every dripping word
as it spits from my soul.

So if you judge me,
on your common throne of hipster arrogance,
for not being what you want me to be,
I laugh,
but I'm also a little sad.
That the beauty and raw power of what has come from me
is being willfully ignored by the likes of you.

You, who claim to "have black friends"
and are "cool with gay people",
yet you pride yourself in your righteous condemnation of the artistic community,
spitting vitriol over the works that have come from people's souls...
which is,
you know,
like spitting directly on their souls.

When someone puts a pen to paper
or a brush to canvas
or a buzzing needle to skin
or fingers to a keyboard
or picks to strings
or notes on a bar
they are giving you,
you selfish, arrogant prick,
a priceless gift.
They are extending to you
a tiny piece of their soul...

and don't think it hasn't come with pain,
there is a jagged bloody hole from whence that gift comes.
Some degree of pain,
memory,
experience,
a time or day or place or tears
that inspired this piece.

Artists aren't typically made
of especially happy people.

So all I ask,
my dear reader,
is that when I present my words you keep this in mind.
I'm not looking for validation,
I'm expressing my thoughts,
my feelings,
my experiences,
and my hope is that you may identify,
connect,
rejoice,
mourn,
feel as I have felt and can find solace in the shared pain or joy of another.

If you can't,
that's cool,
kindly shut the fuck up...
and walk away.

Your critique is not necessary.