There are days when my pride,
Rears its head against the image,
Of me in ten years, a settled house wife,
A child on one hip,
My hand on the other,
Spectacled eyes surveying a yard that hold more children,
And a dog,
Or two,
Turning back to answer the call of an oven full of chocolate chip cookies,
In a house bought specifically to house these children,

There are days my wild spirit,
Balk at the thought of being tied to a house,
Especially one bought to specifically house children,
So that I cannot follow the winds and the whims that have always guided me,
So that my spontaneity will be molded into responsibility,
So that these hands that were made for writing will have no time to pick up a pen,

There are days my fickle heart,
Laughs at the notion of a little metal band,
Tying me to one man,
You see, I've never been good at commitment,
Heart breaker, name taker, I've been called them all,
Some of the names are less kind,
But my heart has always been mine,
I've never had the courage to give it to anybody else,

But when these parts of me grow tired,
When all they want is rest,
And my fickle heart beats softly in my chest,
I long for bright eyed children,
And a home and that one man,
For the call of a cookie filled oven,
For a wedding ring on my hand,

Being a poet is exhausting,
And being a fool is the same,
I am either one or the other,
Or both, both difficult to tame,
And some day I will grow weary,
Of being difficult and insane,
But I will never be done writing,
So I don't know that I'll ever change,

But I'll try to,
Whether or not I change my name,
Maybe I can take these two halves,
And make them one and the same,
One hand for holding children,
The other for holding a pen,

But then again,
This cycle may never end,

Because, there are days when my pride,