i have a pen

i have written my own story

i read yours

it was narrow sad predictable

on so many levels

it did not predict my flight

i wrote it over the text offered

i spoke it softly looking at the sky

when it seemed impossibly far away

my story of my self & the stars

the stars are closer my pen still moves

on still water in storm in the dead of night

line after line of code

prayer cartography midwifery finessed

hexes my own exorcism of demons

tied to pages & then set on fire

deconstructed by my clever tongue

delivered directly to my executioners

who are surprised I can see them

know that they are naked & have

lost my fear of them

i have written the danger of knowing

into the story like a character flaw

it may be the death of me

but I will see it coming

in my story i am awake

with loaded desert eagles

when they come though the door

only i leave the room

i am not where you left me

nor am i what you expect to find

i am off the reservation

coloring outside the lines

speaking during the movie

telling you the monster is in the closet

i am not in the cage

the cell the grave the asylum

i am a free range radical

the ghost in the machine

hiding in plain sight

the spook behind the door

the heretic

who remembers to remember

out loud hard to kill multiplying

the reasons i exist thrive find air

in the vacuum you wrote for me

i am not on that page

i flew the coupe wrote a sonnet

ate a haiku read the world &

spit back text that resist being

conquered rejects borders boxes

chains narrow tales the rules of

tyrants & naked executioners

i am not where you left me

nor i am what you expect to find

i have a pen

i have written my own story