And it was some kind of poetry
That spilled from my heart before
Jumbled and messy
Like back when I was four
Or perhaps that was fourteen
All the world before me
Always using someone else’s wings
Mine too broken and dirty
Lift me up, lay me down to sleep
For these forgotten words I weep
They were songs and poems
Fairytale and stories
That my heart dreamt while sleeping
And my hands wrote while daydreaming
And oh, as I remember them
Soft and sweet like a lullaby
Maybe something even better
Than my mother’s voice at bedtime
They were my words
They were my hopes
They were my soul
Pretty and ugly
And bare and full
They were some kind of poetry
That’s all I remember now
Rhythms and steps—that a younger me had found—
That the me of today—all grown up and proud—
Can never know, can never sing
Again aloud
Covet
I stared into your window hoping—was it hope?
To catch a glimpse, something real.
Your soul, perhaps?
The curtains fluttered, tiny bird wings–caught and touched and flew.
Startled, you shut the window—but it’s cold outside.
Won’t you let me in?
My breath fogs the glass—close, but not enough to touch.
Did I scare you?
Windows locked, all boarded up. No cracks or crevasses, not a space for me to slip inside.
Your door doesn’t open for me.
I stared into your window hoping—was it hope?
To catch a glimpse of your world, something real.
Your soul I found, was it love, perhaps?
Or simply, everything, that my world lacked.