We put ourselves on the shelves,
shoved with our spines into the shadows,
opposites the hard and paper backs.
Our works unfinished and scattered,
we hide ourselves in the pages of others’ books because we are too afraid to write our own.
Between the holy book and Mary Shelley,
you lie and profess,
you condemn and encourage me.
You shout down then retreat,
but I hear you,
even when you don’t speak.
I am flitting back and forth,
between Proust and Kierkegaard,
to Ginsberg and Kerouac,
scanning over the ink,
looking for scraps and hints as to where you pour your pints.
Eyes ferociously hunting for your form and style,
for your words in someone else’s…
I am searching for the key,
to your trap doors I fall through.
But you won’t give it to me,
because you are hiding it from yourself.
Are you waiting on something,
are you waiting on you?