There are bits of poetry
And parts of lyrics
That slip out passed my lips
Every time I open them
There is so much beauty in voice
In language and in speaking
But there is also a magic in silence
In the up and down of chest to lungs
Air is the melody we all know how to hum to
My breath is the sound of crickets chirping
Even with my mouth closed I am singing
My pulse beats with a purpose
To remind me of the rhythm that is engrained deep within
My hands are always moving
Fingers never still
They are tapping to a song
That nobody else can hear
There is no stopping the music-
It is alive in me.

I remember
The way I was taught symmetry

Butterflies.

The pattern of their wings,
I was told,
Is a perfect example
Of consistency
Each wing
Will always match the other

I once saw a butterfly
With a missing wing
Unable to do
What butterflies are supposed to do

Fly.

In other words
Useless

My wings
Are not always even
Does that mean
That I too,
Am useless
Or am I still
Worth existing?

Not everything good in life
Is balanced
Or congruent
We are not geometry
We are living

The most perfect things
Are the ones
That don't match up
Perfectly.

He had a love that lasted years
I have had nothing
Even remotely close
Only what is fleeting
Rough lips and selfish tongues
Greedy hands and reckless touch
The only love I have ever known
Left without warning
I have never known love to be forgiving
Or patient and kind
That kind of love
Is not one I am familar with

I am well aware
That he is not here to love me
He is here to worship this body
That most days,
Doesn't even feel like my own
Most days
My skin is a jacket
That stretches over fragile bone
I only wear it because I have to
Because this world pokes and prods with sharpness
And there are only so many times someone can break completely
These tattoos
Are just a shield for vulnerability
Piercings,
Nothing more than metaphor for puncture
There are so many wounds still awaiting healing

And although this body
Hasn't been fully occupied by its tenant in years
I will let him spend a night in it
Let him believe that it is nothing beyond ordinary
I will let him carve his name into the arch of my back
Fingernails to flesh
Palms to ribcage
And for one night
He will make believe love to me
We will make believe intimacy
Make believe that lust is something
That can only be felt more than just momentarily
We will pretend that our affection is warranted
And be unbound

In the morning
He will wash my name from his mouth
Swallow it entirely
And forget he ever tasted it
Tomorrow
He will wipe my DNA from his skin
Rinse off every last trace of my lips
And I will do the same
There is no reason
That I should be something he comes back to
There is no reason for me to draw myself indelible
When all I will ever be
Is a lone evening of desire

Nobody wants to get to know the girl
Who barely knows herself
Nobody will ever remember the girl
Who forgets who she is every time she gives herself away
This is a girl
Who calls herself woman
But still cries in the dark

And someone
Who knows love as well as he does
Will never want someone
Who doesn't even know
What love is
Someone like that
Is better suited
For one night.

It's as if
Time didn't want us to be together
Almost as much
As I did.

Be cautious
Of the love you give out
And how much of yourself
You give away

There will always be someone
Who takes too much.

When Blake wrote his words
And colored them into image
Do you think he knew
That hundreds of years later
We would still be reading them
Do you think he knew
Centuries forward
We would still be singing his songs of innocence
And experience
I wonder
If our curiousity about his work
Pleases him
Or if maybe
He rolls in his grave
Sick of hearing his own art
On replay
Maybe he is laughing
Because we are trying
Too hard
Over-analyzing
Too much
I wonder
If he ever imagined
His poetry would live on for so long
Still continue breathe
Long after he stopped
I wonder
If he knew
It would remain alive
Even when he was not
I wonder
If any of the greats
Knew just how great they really were

Did Shakespeare understand
The potential in his pen
In his ability
To turn blood into ink
Did he know
How many decades could live
In just one short sonnet
And that one single story
Could become universal
Maybe he too
Is puzzled by our wondering
Maybe he didn't think
As much as we do
Maybe
He just did
Without thought
I often question
If we question too much
If we twist simple into complex
Make things more complicated
Than needed
All too often

If every writer
Who wrote our stories
Knew how much
We would become them
I wonder
If they would have written them
In the first place

I would like to think
They would
That they knew
Of the beauty
In challenge
That they wrote
With reader in mind
And the hope
That you
Will find it.

I don't really know
Where home is
Right now
I'm still searching for a place
To call one
I'm still looking for somebody
To be one
I don't really know
Where home is
But I am determined
To find out.