Princess Pat gets the Blues
This place, like chocolate cake
when we had that food fight
on one utensil night,
is on me and in me,
filling up and spilling over
to a thousand kids singing in their own dining rooms
about me, to me.
"Shades"
They call for me and I answer,
but only with my spirit,
flitting away until I will pass through that gate once again,
and I will fill and spill
singing my own praises louder than the rest
for in my dining hall, I rise.
This place, like a hot log cabin,
will burn away my spirit if I stay too long
how long?
How long to wait?
til I am gone, or almost?
That burning ego-spirit flits away and I regain it
at what price?
The yo-yo pull of my life will rip this chocolate cake soul
out of me, off of me, cooking me
over the slow pain-fire of existence until I am
alone and cold
and burnt as ice
Can I only be me while watching
for that bus that will never come,
never appear
through that gate.
Waiting
for the master I held dear
to show
and relieve me of my burden,
my soul and spirit.
This place
that aches for me to stay, go, lead, follow, sing, and
shout above all others
that I am here and all is okay
but it isn't, it isn't
and I feel it in my dough-filled soul
down
deep below the frosting
that maybe
I'm not good enough to rise.
