from my post, for not being enough
of a poet to pay my way.
cleaning, mothering, cooking, conforming,
out casted by traditional society.
Everyone knows I bake apple pies
with dough of insincerity
bored by tasks of futility.
My solitude grows, imprisoning
the creativity of my soul.
Grasped by clutches of anxiety
I linger in between the doings
daydreaming about a place of being
excited by life’s possibilities.
If I could escape the immersion
of my society filled with standards
and fears of just about everything
I might be able to create a poet,
not a professional one judged in
2012 by the bank account balance
but a poet that creates a life’s work
passing imagination as a legacy
– L.J. Lenehan –