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so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens
Please don't call me Poet
I am but a sinking boat
these words they crash against my hull
and keep my heart afloat.
They stop me going under
for my soul cannot be saved
it's sleeps down deep with Davey Jones
beneath the churning waves.

Please don't call me Poet,
to that name I don't aspire,
I merely scribble words that rhyme
and sing of dark desire.
I whisper onto paper every truth my heart does hear,
my blood it taints the pages
you will find no beauty here.

Please don't call me Poet,
I am but cold and worn,
my jaded eyes are barren
and my fickle heart is torn.
My resolve she crumbles slowly, precious thoughts do not behave.
If you must call me poet
place a marker on my grave.
You finally got your poem Ryan....now stop calling me poet!!!!
:-)
 Aug 2014 Tawanda Mulalu
Sjr1000
The first comment
I received
a "*******"
with a smiley face
I laughed off
wouldn't you?
Kind of crazy
kind of creepy
put it away as some one
we all know.

The second comment
came
with the usual language refrain
I was a "hack"
my words were "dreck".
The disparaging words about
my dead mother
gave me pause to reflect.

The third comment and more
began to recall
information of past
faux pas
secret affairs
one or two personal pecadillos
never mentioned beyond
the
dialogues in my mind.
Embarrassing I know.

I, of course,
went to the home page
to see
if it was someone
known to me.

No identifying data
but a picture I remembered vaguely
from a past I didn't know.

The trolling continued
relentless I would say
pulled the plug
put up a block
but
wouldn't you know

The comments continued
to come into my dreams
brutal criticism
of
every move I made
the day finally arrived
when I realized

Alter personalities were shedding off of me
like
psychological psoriasis
They were
hitting the ground running
I was
finding poems
I didn't remember writing
clothes I never bought
People kept hugging me
I had never met before
they
knew me far to well
called me many names
none of which were mine.

The silence of my nights were broken
when I found myself
in my car on Highway 101
returning from where I did not know
with a smile on my face
illegal drugs in my pocket.

How did I get here?
How did we get there?
Where are we now?

Another account opened
on Hello Poetry
with an anagram of my name.

I find my days
getting shorter and shorter
it became clear
I had become the dream
The others
had become me.
 Aug 2014 Tawanda Mulalu
jai
A pocket full of stars
A jar full of dreams
Your love's not what it seems
Like stars it is enticing
From a far
Twinkling
But up close
Its a supernova
Quickly burning out
Collapsing into a black hole
******* my love into eternal darkness
But that was your plan all along wasn't it
You are siren
And my weakness was you
But I still hold onto my jar of dreams
And I still reach into my pocket of stars
Even in darkness
I can still shine
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