What She Does

She says it, texts it, types it,
posts it, writes it on walls,
in bathroom stalls, in halls of malls.
It's out there, her testimony, her story,
her mantra, her glory, her fear, her pride.
She told it, she sold it, she let it all go
out in the world to let the world know,
her mind, its workings, its lurkings,
its will, its notions, its oceans of thought,
are all on display.
Take it, leave it, don't read it, don't listen.
She'll just keep on shouting:
"I'm here, this is who I am!"
Because she has to.
She carefully chooses
what she'll allow
into the veins of her brains
and the flow of her heart.
She compiles and smiles and makes
up her words, she writes and
she fights with the conscious unheard.
She works and she struggles,
she looks to the space
above her life, that magical place
where ideas float and mingle
and tingle her senses,
she gathers and forms and makes
up her world into the place
she can live in,
subconscious unfurled.