prowling poetESS (aka: the gypsy artist)

as a college in-and-out (as opposed to drop-out) rapidly approaching 30
and
already sitting back daydreaming over "where did the fucking time go" i
am
reclining into the worn armchair of my reality.
clothes threadbare, second-hand, made by foreign children's hands-
shoes well-worn and abused with drunken midnight walks in which i have
decided the fate of the world while feeling the wet streets seep
through the
holes of my soles and writing poems in my head about the squish of
water
between toes cramped with roaming-
yet no where to go.

living each moment for the pen, the brush, the canvas, the paper, the
word,
the color, the image, the moment to capture an emotion that is uniquely
entwined with my explanation of the world around me.
feeling the constant thrush of the creative flush from within and
bursting
to convey an unspeakable message.
- i am carrying the whispers of god in crushed cocktail napkins -
hastily written dreams that stream from the subterranean underground i
call
home.


jodi scofield