On the strap of her bag,

Hangs a “Woodstock” stuffed with filler and coins.

Money to photocopy art from magazines,

Images soon to inspire visions of future art projects.

With it, there are keys to a car and empty home.

In her bag lies a whole identity,

That she herself does not know beyond her

Driver’s license, social security card, registrations, insurance…

Photo’s of loved ones, animals, but no friends.

There is a portfolio of typography,

Books on Totemology,

The entire world of Indian spirituality.

Then there are two chapters, two books she’s started,

Yet to be finished.

There is a complete folder of poetry,

With most of it about one particular person,

Or written with anger or in spite of  that person in mind.

No real self discovery for the last half year.

It is empty, shallow, and pointless,

But necessary.

In her bag is a complete book,

Sketched in idea,

That lies still, unfinished, unedited, and all together,

In it’s undesirability…

Because there is no reason to finish a crucifixion.

There’s a dictionary and thesaurus,

Roadmaps to a better living, a free-ness,

If she could only escape the detours—

    Of self torture,

    Of self hate.

In her bag there are pens of many colors,

White out when she chooses to erase,

To go back as if something wasn’t “there”.

And all she does IS go back,

To where nothing is obtainable,

Nothing concrete exists,

Just the pain over something she misses.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Sometimes we get so involved being on the inside looking out, what is it to look at ourselves on the outside looking in?  What do people think about us by the things we carry--physically as well as mentally?  Is the physical representative to the inner perspective?  Is any of it accurate or true?  And what, how much is necessary for growth and rebirth?  When is it excessive?

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