I deserve better than empty days
And empty nights, and the empty gaze
Of an empty screen, and my words
My words, my word, hounding me
Like they hounded you, the birds
That knew no better than to fly free
And sing a tune they thought you'd hear
And find sweet. How I tossed teaspoon
After tablespoon of honey, cinnamon, and cumin
Thinking I was a pretty picture, not the loon
I know looking back from the mirror, fuming
Unjustly at you for not seeing ever
This woman who lost herself as she'd persevere
And sever her pride. But it was I, forever,
Who blocked my ears and bound my eyes, to revere
Nothing of any reality or love, an empty chamber
In which my broken voice reverberates, a dying ember,
"Love me, J--, love me?", though my heart knows
That this was not the place to ask or look
My heart cried after I did not listen to her throes,
"This man isn't even a chapter in your book."
Now, I'm just angry at myself, but I need to remember, in the grand scheme of things, I'm still a child, and one should never be wrathful to a child.
