untitled. to me, from anne

There is no one who can do what I can.
This is a job unmeasured,
a life unimaginable,
which I share poets and things.

We who cannot speak
and dare not act,
we are the wordmakers.
The confidants,
not the movers,
cannot be trusted with secrets.

Our weakness will fill you,
our love will enchant,
our passions will-

We know what life is, it is our self.
Climb in this crate, the crate that is ours,
straight from United Fruit, Inc.
Quickly girl, there is so much to explore,
for we will fall through the floor,
and become the essence.

If faced with this solitude
the steady would be come undeceive.
Given this food,
one would shout poison!

But I am rowing,
oh darling! I am still rowing.
One should turn back,
the road is unpaved,
the river unkept.
It's filthy.
Do not ask of what lies beneath it's glassy skin.
Do not ask me why i shudder,
my arms are weak,

still the rowing must go on.
Pens, paper, hearts, music, rhythm, and rhyme,
fill me up to my toes,
my typewriter I eat in the morn,
his sonnets I burn by night.
Do not walk towards me with bare intentions.
If you seek time,

she does not lie here.
She dare not come here!
Help me, my little string bean,
we are rowing to bedlam and back.
Where they would ring the bells in my ear;
E-flat.
Speak your desires through ink,
dry your sermons in black,
hold fast.
Hold tight.

And these were the songs,
we sang at Bedlam,
there are the words,
scribbled under the table.
There are the words,
that imprisoned me at 45 Mercy Street!
Darling I have been your kind,
I have been his kind,
I have been god's kind,
I have been her kind.
You must be my kind!
Yes, forgive us father

for we know not.

I'd like to think,
that you've sins to be penned.
Secrets for my lay away box?
It is my immortality box...

If you must row,
then come and write. with. me.
Women like us,
are not afraid to fly.