Poems.

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I am undeserving of your praise
You know little of my soul's true phase
I did not walk upon the sea,
nor cast my faith upon divinity

should you choose to worship me,
i need not know, for i will not see
the truth that only you may feign,
praise not me; i want no fame.

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"the crib"

I am no longer a resident of the five-faced box,
adorned with frills and bows and peace and care

I am no longer prone to the bars that withhold freedom,
delicately painted white, as a reminder
of the very thing you pray will never die

I am taller than its walls, larger than its volume,
You, the organic shapes that once granted me such freedom,
are now confined to the contrary disposition

Yet now i yearn to return to that box--
to the plush comfort of the sheetless haven,
to be witness to the stationary existence
of the white pillars beside my head,
to dream an unlabeled, unfostered, prenatal reality--

you welcome me with open arms.