Dear John,
There are things about my life,
that are not understood,
not by me,
not by anyone.
It's the emergency room on a tsumani night,
It's the silent room after surgery failed,
It's the silence in the dark after everyone has gone to bed.
It is not the calm after the storm,
It is the wreckage in the aftermath,
It is the middle of the tornado.
I am the bandit on the highway of love,
I am the runaway bride from hell,
I am the scared, the fear, the innocent child.
Dear John,
I am the carer in the giver,
and I want to give you all i can give,
I want to give you all that life can give,
But i need to give myself air to breathe,
like a fine red wine,
that i would down like it was moonshine.
Dear John,
I am the old oak tree faltering in the breeze,
I am the wheat sheaf, tall and ready to be cut down,
I am the end of the beginning.
But i feel you and it feels me,
and i am so involved but so distant,
I am blue and i am black,
but yet i am bright and i am shiny.
Dear John,
Please be the ***** socks on my bedroom floor,
Please be the voice that tells me to stop using the hot water,
Please be the cup that doth runneth over.
This and that, this and that, this and that.
Dear John,
be the moisturizer on my skin,
be the sublime and the settled,
be the heaven and show me the light there.
I wish i could peel off my skin,
and let you all in,
and see the beauty beneath and my wonderous treasures within.
Dear John,
don't give up,
I am here,
though i am not.