Beautiful Narrow-Minded Poet

I met a poet online briefly.
Gave a compliment; she sent out an x. 
I am getting old, therefore I do not always understand
the shorthand of the young, their codes of conduct
and misconduct.  For all her beautiful words of hazy
borderline mysticism, I noted an imbalance, a dishonesty,
a narrow-mindedness, lush, vibrant words of
poetry, accounts of melancholy, longing for love,
walking outside the exile, but Twitter gave her
away, the narrow camp she followed and who
followed her, her focus on just a prick point
on the earth, her homeland.

Her words 140
characters or less, beautiful random Tweets
that though lovely left an unhealthy taste in
my mouth.  There is something too pompous
and proud there for her own good or anyone's
own good. I would love for this girl of the mellow
beautiful voice and worldly words that trick themselves
into a kind of mysticism to truly open her heart
and not pretend.  Leave the pretension on the
stage. Leave your dolls there before your audience.
Remove your mind from the narrow box it is in.
It may be difficult since I do not know the conditions
you lived under growing up.

You are a refugee,
but open your mind beyond
your group of headscarved females and self-
centered revolutionaries too afraid to die by a
bullet, drawing attention to themselves but solving
nothing.  Speak as this old girl speaks, naturally
and with open love, not all this pleading in the
dark and fear.  Even this aging poet knows when
to turn off the poetry and flowers, not to speak
like a poet all the time.  Take a holiday from
the stage.  To be a poet you have to first be
an honest human with feelings outside yourself
flowing away from the cold rigid princess.

Heaven Lost

There are things we cannot say and dare not say
but if we permitted ourselves to say them
the world would be warmed and caressed
as the sun thawing and melting the snow into
nothingness, water to the arid spirit.  Instead 
of the silence, the words that demand to be
said we relish in fear, anger, sadness, regret
when it is so easy.  Just a word, mine the right
ones disconnected from our egos permitting 
the softness and innocence to return.

Small children are artists with words. Even in their playfulness
and absurdity we see there is no treacherous pretension.
I watch the children on the playground and see the 
wonderland I lost.  I can never choose that heaven
completely again now that I know.  I remember how
difficult it was to learn how to ride my bike. 
A friendly older boy coached me but I never caught
on under his patient gaze and tutelage until one day,
one day I found myself balanced and riding on two
wheels. That boy passed away recently killed and
thrown away by his hidden pain and ignorant decisions,
hurtful that this happened to that patient and kind once
boy that I knew.  Like an old song went If I Ever Lose
This Heaven....I lost it and many more millions 
before and afterwards have.