Everybody has something to say,

you know,

but when I write my mind,

I believe every thought is singular.

In the moment, why,

I am about to fall-off the edge of my seat,

painting each word that gathers me-up

in childlike-fascination.


I am dancing on the page in my finest shoes,

arms in flight,

toned like a ballerina’s,

and the object is to fly—

Into that place I am:


or burdened,


or magic,


or, oh so young again…

I am.

When I can have things uncomplicated,

or nail them down like a tombstone.


Death and Daisies—


The way it shakes me sometimes!

Realizing the reality…

I’d rather be a raindrop,

falling-upward like

treble keys on a piano.


The pink little girl in me 

Swirling like cream in a cup.

A dancing statue in a jewelry box!


Before jagged-edges…

Still, there always was sadness:

Born that way,

searching what’s missing.


I fell from a star,

the dark, vast universe,

where there is always noise,

sometimes frightening,

but you are a part of this living entity,

not separated by birth.

Then you become a dream to yourself,

with a family,

and a brass bed.


Experiences count themselves plenty.

It’s your birthday,

first day of school,



learning to drive,

lost virginity,


sister’s cancer,

a daughter’s birth,




revolving door…

But never home to my lover,

with whom I’d live and die!



This is not my perfect skin,

The supple kind everything rolls off of

I’m sad!


a princess and brat,

brave warrior.

What is the point?

To create a movie life—

On and on and on…

Though now, I am remarkably tired.

I can’t climb

around myself,

always in the way.

Promise me you’ll try?

Because after all there must be meaning—

Yes, yes…

But to be safe,

feel loved,


to give…

B e l o n g.

Those are all okay things, I guess.

Not to be a penny tossed—

(Or a wish lost.)


Maria Pisciotta-DellaPorte ©2014 All Rights Reserved