the
emptying chair
I
am unfit to be
a
father, a husband or myself
I
am scorned thorned
brambled
on the beach
far
away from ivy
in
a gnarled intensity
the
Love has a hard time reaching
as
even the Sun stays
away
from here
I
am not sure
of
anything anymore
whether
weather is
a
curtain or a door
or
even a window
to
the tides
of
my soul’s journey
through
time
I
didn't ask to be born
to
be abandoned
to
be poisoned by disregard
I
didn't ask to raised
as
a token social leper
I
didn't ask for anything
but
Love in a language incomplete
and
now I know nothing
of
how to understand
its’
simple still beauty
I
know nothing of how to tell
even
the smallest parts of me that it is okay
to
open up my soul to shine home
towards
whatever it means
to
let go of pain
I
am selfish
bent
on individual expression
but
not of understanding
I
speak the same language
the
same component
laughter
to tear ratio
as
all of you but no
it
isn't the song being
played
right now
as
my humanity seems
to
be lost somewhere
on
my time’s path
I
am leaning my eyes
outside
the window
at
the kitchen table it seems
as
if another cloudy day is upon me
and
when the children ignore me
leaving
for school
I
am a spit turned odd fire
that
roasts open my skin
and
shows the lack of fat
the
blood that masks
the tears
I hold in
does so because
all I do
is
thirst for salt
all
the time now
thirsting
to appreciate
some part of who I am
I
have been running to find
a
safe place to hide
for
so long now I may have
permanently
given up
my
right to trust or be trusted
I
am merely sagebrush tumbling now
in
the ghosted streets of vacated promises
that
have built towns
with
no names no places
where
I used to believe
where
the mechanics of chicanery
might
have fooled me
as
I began selling the shiny polish
of
don't look inside me long ago
I
have now forgotten
who
I was or am or could be
so
outside the window
with
its cloudy sky
another
priceless May has come
and
it looks the same as all the others
but
I am a step closer to the tides
to
the sands that oblivion waits for
to
cover my hollow caring with
my
history etched in backwards writing
as
if going over the sidewalk with chalk
could
stave off my disillusion in the rain
it
doesn't and I never have to explain why
because
truth is I don't know why
as
much as I know how to make pretty pictures
with
words and fantastic bits of cleverly absurd
ironies
with wings that mimic destiny
and
other things but what do I really know
if
I don't know how to Love
those
who know to Love without reason
being
born into this world
is
not a choice
only
an opportunity to voice
a
soul that's found
the
wry wiring of skin and bones
to
ply desire with and as
I
am coming to know only this
that I
have sang so much
of things outside
myself
I
no longer can start
to find where the words are
that only fit me
EJR
©
Real.
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