Dancing Star

By Kelly Grace Thomas

 

There is a part of me that wonders

if creativity can live with pickets fences.

Would normalcy straightjacket the dream before

the fever broke?

Manicured lawns and balanced checkbooks will not name my extinction.

I was born of the carbon and remaining ash,

dirty hands and smoky words

 that etch truth out of nights too warm for sheets.

We all fall apart in dark corners with hooded eyes and hidden hearts.

There is a part of me that wants to feel your electricity,

all goose bumps and bad wine.

I am always stuck in one current or another.