You paint me in platitudes
each day we awake,
though you're not the dear reader
I crave.

You make love in the spaces
I claim for myself.
I submit to your ***;
I behave.

It's not that I can't love
what will come to be,
it's just I live for my childhood
so brave.

How I wish I could live in
a promise of joy,
but my mind only lives
in the grave.

And I wish I could live in
a life humble and slow,
where all that I love
is bestowed.