My heart is full of ghosts of people not yet dead,
loves I never had,
and places I'll never stop calling home.
My heart is the ghost,
walking the same path, day in and day out,
passing through the walls I have long since put up around myself.
My heart calls to me, late at night,
like an abandoned dog tied to a tree,
and begging for home.
It says to me, "I am not a peach pit!
I could still love if you'd let me!"
My heart is naive, so I force-feed it sour memories,
water it in an ocean of tears I've saved
from letting people in and watching them walk away.
I watch, with bittersweet satisfaction,
as my hound dog heart remembers the pain we've endured;
the way it crumples in on itself in agony.
I say to it, "No, you are not a peach pit, but
neither of us are strong enough to let you be anything less."
do you ever wake up in the middle of the night to write a line or two down and when you wake up the next day, you see you sleep-wrote and entire poem?