When I am weak, I look to Bronte to bring me home.
When I feel empty I look to Plath to make me whole,
Because no man, no degree, no job will fill me with the power and joy words bring.
No physical thing can bring me more to my knees
Than a blank journal providing endless possibilities printed on hand-pressed paper,
or a book written before language was frivolous,
whose pages speak truths I didn’t know existed,
Brimmed with riddles most people can’t decipher
But to me they are the stars that comfort my age old soul
They are the reaching hand that pulls me back
When I am dancing the edge and my tears tip me over
When the bough breaks and the cradle comes crashing down,
When the only person I want to see pulls the wool over my eyes
I will return to the only savior I have seen
The only thing that will never betray, break or bait me.
The only true love I have known.
Poetry
Dec 26, 2018
Dec 26, 2018 at 1:59 AM UTC
When I am weak, I look to Bronte to bring me home.
When I feel empty I look to Plath to make me whole,
Because no man, no degree, no job will fill me with the power and joy words bring.
No physical thing can bring me more to my knees
Than a blank journal providing endless possibilities printed on hand-pressed paper,
or a book written before language was frivolous,
whose pages speak truths I didn’t know existed,
Brimmed with riddles most people can’t decipher
But to me they are the stars that comfort my age old soul
They are the reaching hand that pulls me back
When I am dancing the edge and my tears tip me over
When the bough breaks and the cradle comes crashing down,
When the only person I want to see pulls the wool over my eyes
I will return to the only savior I have seen
The only thing that will never betray, break or bait me.
The only true love I have known.
Poetry
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