Home is he.
He is the stranger in my heart.
He is the only one by whom
I wish to be known.
How do I know?
He shoves the steady ground under me
When I’m falling into my self made abyss.
He fights for me when I surrender to
He clings to me, draws me to his chest
As I struggle to run away and hide.
He knows me, and wants me still.
He hears me scream, yell, and cry,
Shattering the illusion of blissful
And still, he pulls me near, kisses me
Still, he wraps his silent self
I find myself home.
to be a muse or a poet?
oh the writer for certainty.
to be the muse is to be adored,
presumed upon, idolized, to be the
muse is to find yourself a person you
cannot attain. to be the muse is to
be broken by one wrong word, one
unbecoming truth, and it all comes
crashing down. to be the muse is
to be left broken hearted with
stacks of empty, ink stained pages.
but, oh, to be the writer revered,
with marionette sentences around
fabricated pretenses and their
that is when the true artistry
what do I owe you? those hearts I broke?
what do I owe those intentions I
what do I owe you? you, who wrote words
about my very being, in vainglorious hope
would share reciprocity?
what do i owe you? when you’ve lost your muses
when it was my spirit and mind you had to use –
what do i owe you?
when i didn’t give you time,
no, not even a chance.
what do i owe her? who i could have been?
swept away by poetry, met by
what do i owe you? you who bravely
sat behind walls to write about me, but
when it came to the reality of loving me,
you were gone.
let me pay my debt.
let me be free from this hell of holding on –
what do i owe you?
what do i owe him? he who kisses my
forehead so carefully, who cares for me so
do i owe him happiness or honesty – because
i can’t give both.
i owe myself nothing, i know, nothing.
my should is being uplifted from the dregs in
which i steeped so so long. i owe myself
they teach you about modesty, pull your shirt
up, dress down, shoulders haunched, heart fearful.
but they don’t teach you about promiscuity
of the soul.
the affair of words and rose tinged memories,
the decadence of wooing serendipity.
they don’t teach you how the heart wanders
and leaves the hollow bones behind.
you learn all that alone, on a sofa, in a safe
room with afternoon light, dust hanging in the air.
his hand on yours, his voice in your ear. sure,
certain, lovely, inescapable.
you run away, staring at the boxes of pictures
you have nowhere to hang.