Sometimes, my words won’t come,
no matter what I try to write.
I softly call upon my muse,
to visit me this night.
I feel her warmth within the room,
I’m instantly at ease.
I sense her reading my scribbles,
she knows my thoughts
and hears my longing pleas.
I feel her delicate fingers
upon my clumsy hand;
her words and phrases flood my mind,
things I’ve never seen before
from some far distant land.
I don’t know where she comes from,
(perhaps, from up above)
where ever it is
that she calls home,
she comes to me with love.
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Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People
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They Call Me Red:
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