Apr 5
I breathe here—in this house
someone else built.
And I’ve lived in houses
built by others—
some far, some near,
but never mine.
I call this room mine—
these things, these clothes,
these books—
they are mine.
Aren’t they?
I look out the window
and see the trees, the sky,
the birds—
they’re not mine,
but I keep them close anyway.
I have loved,
and I have cried.
I’ve made others cry.
It’s not a fair deal.
It comes and it goes—
it rarely stays.
Like the words I bleed—
I confess,
I rarely know what to write,
but I write anyway.
And why do we write?
For someone to find us?
For us to find them?
For them to see us—
just see us?
There’s no art in this world
that isn’t a longing.
There are no happy songs,
or paintings, or photographs—
they’re all fleeting.
They don’t exist
the way we do.
You don’t have to believe me.
It doesn’t matter.
I do not matter.
My thoughts,
my dreams,
my words—
they do not matter.
Nothing rarely does.
But I write anyway—
maybe you’ll find me,
and none of this will matter.
