lifeofawillow

if nothing ever feels like that

how can anything ever feel right

at all.

cant even write

for fear

of drunken

word

and loosened

tongue,

telling you

all

thats meant

to be kept

in chambers

all

my own.

if i could crawl,

into a cave;

-i would.

and ever remain

an unknown

to most,

and those that knew

might understand

and hold a glass,

or wish at night,

or sing a song,

or say my name;

but no one

would ever

be able to touch

and know one

would ever,

be able to see,

my huddled form

in fetal distress

trying to regain

the brief moments

of calm~

before it all,

got too noisy

to bear.

if freedom is

just

the pat pat pat

of small odd feet

on busy street

with skinny legs

and thighs that hold

and rounded hips

on softened core

with thump thump thump

of beating heart

in rounded bosom

with breath drawn in

to swirling scents

outside light eyes

that gleam

in still young face

and soul

and thoughts that idle

in crazy head

that perhaps ill come

to love

one day…

so small

and insignificant

begging

for crumbs

of something

i

can never

have.

if it never rained again

and the joy just dried up

and the ground remained dry

beneath my too small feet,

and the sky in its artificial way

lit up my skin

till its veins lay bare

and my blood ran away

past the time that it needed

to be worthy of life

and all that is good..

-would i sit there alone?

-against dried out wood

-beneath wilted willow

-on empty ground

-with empty hands

-and empty heart

till the wind blew me over,

on that grave that i drew.

none of this makes any sense to me.

and so i listen to old music

and try to put together a puzzle.

maybe that will make sense to me

on a familiar background

with my clumsy self

just trying my best..

it’s not very much,

and it’s not very good,

but it’s all i have

right now