this silly head of mine
the summer coming like
a train tearing for the mountains of the
west.
i am lost inside, and it is beautiful.
in the back room there is a flower
and i keep watering it
the summer air seems to be
teasing its blooms, i am in awe.
my heart, still burdensome at times
seems to have forgotten tears for now
and i flinch.
how long can this well stay dry? it's not like
that here on the coast of demise.
and yet, it is.
but i hate this poem, because it's a lie
it's all metaphor and beauty
when inside there's far more
and far less.
my heart is pounding most days
and i wonder if insanity can be far behind.
who said anything about only writing pretty things?
or not splitting those that are in half?
when i wake up, as of late, i am not so much tired
as tired. life has a way of straining my brain
and it is a rare thing to be able to say that, to admit it
to be seen inside of it, and yet i have been, i think, i
am.
i am frightened lately because of the current reality,
because
i don't have power, because i have no desire to control
or manipulate,
because it's not a game.
i feel willing to let the universe work things out, but
how i hope it does it
in a pleasing manner. my heart tied in a bow to a
thread that feeds across
space and connects elsewhere.
bringing me back to the summer air
to the rain collecting in pools outside
my window thrown open, the dawn air
heavy and littered with sound.
my own ears collecting the songs
of a lover gone broken.