There are times when inspiration flutters like wayward children
disappearing with swift quickness before I capture them into cages of words.
so many questions
ink running wet on an empty page
these cages seem alone without their mad prisoners.

Shadows of the night descend upon my failing spirit
my pen awaits with impatience
lest my fingers be broken for the truth.

Isn't it a crime to keep me chained to my voice?
when mere mortals walk in oblivious bliss
smiling the muscles of their wiry smug mouths
`Poor thing.' `Wild thing.' `Is it true she is mad?' `Why don't they put
her to sleep.'

Sin?
Blame it on Eve
Why am I trembling in fear?
`But the bitch brought it upon herself'
Running fingers of hot molten wax against raw skin
`Bruise her. Hit her. Draw blood. Yeah, let's see some blood.'
I shudder in cold sweat, waiting for daybreak.

Sin?
Go on, dust me under the carpet
push me into a dark corner with a broomstick
sweep the murky streets of your subconscious
is it why my voice is hoarse screaming the truth?
So many nude souls
So many broken bones
Is this judgment day?
Is this the split second when the head severs under the guillotine?

Father I confess
`Poor thing.' `Wild thing.' `Is it true I'm mad?' `Why don't you put me to
sleep.'

An abused woman writes alone
ears hear silent anguish
it is the walls I face.

Pillows on beds groan
lamenting the burden of guilt carried to sleep
pacing a thousand floors
sores on the feet
broken minds, aching fingers, restless hands
hundred voices pushing against the skull
I know them. I hear them. I talk to them while you sleep.
I believe every woman has her own price to pay.