I Stand Here Waiting. To Disappear Or

You Were Just A Boy On A Bed In A Room, Like A Kaleidoscope Is A Tube Full Of Bits Of Broken Glass. But The Way I Saw You Was Pieces Refracting The Light, Shifting Into An Infinite Universe Of Flowers And Rainbows And Insects And Planets, Magical Dividing Cells, Pictures No One Else Knew.

You Always Fed Strays And Bent Down To Talk To The Dogs You Met On The Street, Looking Straight Into Their Eyes As If They Were Old Friends. (maybe They Are, You Said. From Another Life.) You Liked To Go To The Pound And Look At Them. You Tried To Send Them Messages Of Comfort. I Couldn’t Go Because I Started Crying The One Time I Tried. All Those Eyes And The Barks Like Sobs.

Witch Baby Wanted To Ask Ping How To Find Her Jah-love Angel. She Knew Raphael Was Not Him, Even Though Raphael Had The Right Eyes And Smile And Name. She Knew How He Looked--the Angel In Her Dream--but She Didn't Know How To Find Him. Should She Roller-skate Through The Streets In The Evenings When The Streetlights Flicker On? Should She Stow Away To Jamaica On A Cruise Ship And Search For Him In The Rain Forests And Along The Beaches? Would He Come To Her? Was He Waiting, Dreaming Of Her In The Same Way She Waited And Dreamed?

I Think Depression Creates In Me An Urgent Need To Write, But I Also Believe That Daily Stress, And Even The Positive Stress Of Intense Happiness, Can Compel Me To Express Myself Through The Written Word.

You're Meant To Have Whatever Your Heart Desires. Whatever Your Heart Wants That Much Is Already A Part Of You.