Who wants to smother their feelings in order to be accepted?
Or pretend that something doesn’t exist because it’s not
reflected
In the same intensity,
Received in similar propensity?
Flung onto and clung on you
My smoldering streams of feeling
I could never hope for such a return
From the locked up quadrants of what you called love
Who wants to always be a source of stress?
Or nervousness…
A tick that never fades
Curtained by someone’s weak, fearful masquerade?
Seven months into a new year and I still bare the scars
One year almost now
Cut endlessly with rejection’s crystallized shards
But who wants to be a pain?
Or cause a fuss and make things undone.
Who wants to uncurl the flowers dried up edges,
Or twist the rope's fibers the other way ‘round?
Who wants to let their heart melt into a small bowl,
Then scoop it out served sunny side up on a piece of toast?
Who wants to continually ask: “what if?”
Or “why not?”
Or “why?”
Or “what the hell!”
Who wants to feel like the center of a spider web shatter on
a sheet of glass?
I’m retired from self-sacrifice
And though I’ve made a pretty dependable income
Thus far
I’m looking for a profession
With sunnier perks,
Less intimidated co-workers,
And a sustained well in which I can float my paper boats
Made of
Pure, raw, messy love.
