It's good to be home
But what exactly is home?
Just a building?
                             Or is it love that makes it home?
Have I become homeless while having a house?
I always felt that my home was between her two arms
So fragile yet strong
I could crush them, yet she was the strong one
Now with all my love gone
I live in a homeless house
While neverending battle between death and life is fought in my weak head
Walls once filled with her paintings
are now screaming with emptiness
I walk through corridor, I see memories
Times when we were dancing, laughing, kissing
Planing our kids, our future, our life
How can I live with you gone, my love?

Quite punctual, one might say:
His loss of interest.
We would've been a scandal,
A scarlet letter;
And I imagine
He began to wake up
In a sweat,
Unable to handle
How he felt;
Unable to handle
The consequences.
So, is this it?
If I fight hard enough,
If I show up,
And make him laugh
Again,
Will he come back around?
Before now,
I was unaware of how much
I cared,
As he left,
I shrugged him off, saying:
“Suit yourself.”
But a depth opened up
In the pit of my stomach:
Something I couldn’t patch up;
Something that caused me pain
As I bragged about him
To my friends.
I know he’s gone
For good,
And I won’t bother him
Any longer,
In that comfortable peace
He refused to sacrifice.
But I can’t help
Every night
(And I doubt he’d blame me)
To check my phone
For the thoughts
He used to send me.
But they come no longer,
And that I must accept;
Just like I’ve grown accustomed
To the sore pit
He left in my life.

Are all politicians fools,
Do they listen to what they say?
There mouths yell, "Halt, stop that spending!"
While their hands sign the check and their eyes look away.

Do all their body parts work together?
Do they function as a living human being?
Or are they controlled by another
Like a puppet being pulled by its' strings?

Can there be any logic in their thinking?
Can there be any truth in their words?
The two play like Muzak with no harmony,
Like a piano being played on broken chords.

Do they live, eat and breathe like all others?
Do they laugh, cry and worry like most do?
Or do they just send your loved ones into battle
Without a thought of what their death does to you?

So I ask you to judge for yourself.
Take so seriously these four words I say.
Are all politicians fools?
Can we trust them to lead the way?

If there is an answer that addresses the issues,
That doesn't avoid topics as one might the plague,
Then by all means step forward, come hither,
Show us all what discovery you've made.

I truly think they're all fools these politicians
And it saddens me much just to say,
So for now I'll follow Scarlet's advice,
"After all, tomorrow is another day."

You were poetry. You made my heart beat fast enough to start a car engine, but now I'm suffocating, and you won’t let me catch my breath. You’re a song stuck on repeat - I’m getting sick of you - but you just keep playing. The poem feels repetitive and I’m a lyric away from regurgitating every love song I ever composed for you. The only noise playing in my head is the scarlet letter you wrote back. The letter where you called me as beautiful as a flower, yet ripped the roots of my beauty until there was nothing left to recognize. The letter where you reminded me of the strings you pulled with my veins, the way you controlled the choreography of my body with your presence near; I believed you were an amazing ventriloquist. All you are is a skeleton coming from the back of my closet and I can’t get rid of you in discretion. I want you gone. I don’t know whether to call an exorcist to rebuke the demons in my head or an exterminator to get rid of the termites your corpse has left behind. I want you gone. The memory of your acidic touch is leaving third degree burns that may never heal. The memory of butterflies in my stomach makes me wish a whole zoo trampled me instead. The butterflies have burned a hole inside of me and I can no longer digest chocolate kisses from sweeter times. I now sit in this bed, where we once laid, and write about how badly I want to change this radio station.
You are in every station.
I’m tired of writing tragic rhymes about missing you.
I’m tired of missing you.
This is my final sonnet to you.
And with this, I finally turn the radio off.