The Prismatic Self - edited

I am a dare-dreamer, a mask wearer a soul bare-r (but not always my own); a word-weaver. I pull at thoughts like strings. Strings of cobwebs and cirrus, frayed dungarees and threadbare memories until I warp and weft strings of thoughts into poems. Sometimes I get caught in my own knots— I cut myself loose of those naughty strings. I hold onto kite strings… oh, and rainbows strings. They connect my soles to the realm of my soul, but at times, I lose sight of my kites in the gale. Was I irresponsible with responsibility for my strings? I think thoughts need to get lost in clouds and wind; lost in clouds and wind to find the eye-of-the-storm where I rescue kites and make a poetry page my stage and my arena. I twine strings into a heavyweight rope. Fasten it to four corners of the contest page. I enter, incognito, with Apollo imagery and Dionysus metaphor; a masked prize-fighter filled with creative pangst. I grin for wins in poesy masquerade parades but when I fail, strings break off of my drama mask. Revealed but unrecognized, am I just a fractured rainbow? My inner balcony critic reprimands: “sunlight through raindrops must be flawless to create flawless strings of prismatic color”! Alas, lack of refraction left white words non prismatic. I restring my tragedy mask; the ego sphere of a versateer. I create poetry because I love to pluck things; pluck things like harp strings and heartstrings. If I no longer make readers cry, will bleat cred be lost? Don’t think I won’t pluck nightshade petals, fly wings and cello strings to make you feel my tormentia! I’ll quiver the lips of lost-in-loss verse. Coax your soul to sip the pale ale of sorrow —as scents of strawberries scald your skin. I’m not unhappy to gratify your senses. I loop a maverick string whirl it and throw— lasso a funhouse mirror and rein it in. Imagination dances on stilts in looney glass gaze. I use my muse strings to hang mirrors and I ask; who’s the puppeteer and who’s the marionette— the poet or the reader? Footnote: Pangst: the emotional state of combined pain and angst Versateer: one who blends reality and imagination to create poetry Tormentia: an internal state of combined torment and fantasia Bleat cred: acceptance and respect for the creative expression of lamentation *incorporated quote: by poet