my eyes are drawn
to two seagulls
perched contentedly on
a ****-caked lamp post
nothing decorative
lacking flourish or accent
a simple narrowing pole
coloured inexplicably green
with gently domed cowls
that gulls and pigeons
seemingly frequent
marred by a combination
of cream brown white
for all i know
it could be
their own faeces
in which they stand
or it could be
weathered and aged
built up and dried in place
for days
for months
for years
perhaps even decades
never to return
to untarnished days
perhaps if the bulb blew
or the lamp failed completely
it might be restored
while it is repaired
but there is no
guarantee of that
and yet the birds
could not care less
they'll pay no heed
to that which is less
than perfection
treating this evidently
well-favoured resting place
the same as they would
an unmarred branch
protected amongst tree tops
or a dainty bird-bath
amidst the flowers
of someone's quaint garden

these pieces of my heart
too small to pick up
too fragile to put back together
but when you hold me
maybe
i don't need to be fixed

Chronology were neither
at the point of no return
                          or a way back.

What's perplexing in the narrative
is that neither can be changed,
                     as were in neither
but the  momentary



      fluctuation of either

When I watch you being a dad... I love you.
When I see you smile and laugh... I love you.
When I see the boys getting along and wanting your attention... I love you.
When I see you trying... I love you.

But there are also times when I feel stupid and hurt...

When you yell at us even though you know you shouldn't...
When you get upset for the kids being kids...
When you put them down with the words you say not even realizing that you're hurting them or me...
When you call me names...
When you forget to do things you say you will...
When you stop trying because I've stopped asking...

maybe i don't want to be fixed

if i'm fixed
i can still be used
and i'll have to keep going
keep fighting

but if i stay broken
maybe i'll be thrown out
and replaced
so others can move on
and i can
finally
rest

I’m so used to writing sad songs
But I’m not sad anymore.
I stopped letting those disasters
Define me to the core.

And I’ve been content with what I’m doing;
No longer bruised, no longer sore
From this hard beating I’ve endured
(From this heart beating I’ve endured.)
And I’m not sad anymore

I’m so tired of writing sad songs
I can’t shake these feelings I’ve ignored
Like when I fell to pieces in the bedroom
Or when I passed out on the floor.

I was broken and alone
But you felt like home to me.

And you felt like home to me
And I’m listening to those songs I wrote when I was seventeen
I never thought I’d let that go
And so I think that you should know

That you feel like home to me