[i don’t want to
have to tell you i’m
lately it’s been tough.
And i’m stricken with this feeling that
maybe i’m not good enough.]
you see, somewhere out there
birds are looking for nests and birds
are finding them in the ribcages of souls but i
am tired of picking straw from my heart
and strings and hair that wrap around my fingers i’m—
but i never wanted to tell you that]
those leftover nests grow and grow—
[and i want more, want more, but
sometimes there’s only so much my heart can hold]
some drunken hippie filled with dye
and when the sun shines everything is fine
but when thunderstorms brew they are just dead
i want to do what i want.
talking is hard when life is pushing on your chest
and whispering in your ear
maybe this is why i write midnight poetry,
sugar-and-milk coffee poetry,
a warm blanket poetry, the kind
written when i’m most secure.
but the problem with these moods are the damned birds that come with them.
and sometimes i think
they’d just build their damned nests and i,
i would feel better.
waiting for far
too long in the night,
and maybe i never wanted to
have to tell you this but lately
i’ve been feeling]