There on the floor
Beside us as we
Speak so calmly
& rationally
Is a small pink
Fleshy child
Screaming
Her face more
Burgundy
Than pink
From the rage
& terror
She is feeling
That her
Home and place
Of safety
Is nothing more
Than a dream,
With no real
Substance.
Such a small
Thing,
Really.
But with all
That racket
Going on
Inside such a
Confined space
Her screams
Echo and color
Every internal
Conversation.
So annoying really.
The Godself
Finds it quaint.
I wonder
Who's really
Driving the bus.
In the meantime
My chest is
Filled with constriction
And wonders
If others rub my
Head to get
Their dreams
To come true
Why doesn't it
Work for me?
If I were me
I'd tell them
To decided
And put my order
Into the universe
Who desires
Nothing more
Than to give
Me what I
I am focusing on…
Which right now
Is a whole lot of nothing.
I am fighting
Staying conscious.
I can tell
It isn't because
I am sleepy,
But because
Facing the day
Means that I
Have to face
My fears
About income
And a place
To live.
This is the part
Where I am
Disgustingly
Human…
& NO
I don't mean
The pretty part.
So here we are
In the power
Of poetry
Half way
Between
Human
And
Divine.
Go on.
Dare to put
It out there…
Ok. Says one
Unsure timid part.
Good grief,
Says the cynic.
Shut up,
Says the dom.
A room comes
Into view,
Large enough
For my bed
& the
Furniture that
Lines the walls
To be recreated
Elsewhere.
A nice cool basement
Free of critters
Free of smoke
Filled with a family
Who could love
Me as much as
I wish to love them.
A place near
The interior of the city
So I can go do
And be
All that I am
To everything
& everyone,
myself included.
A place where
My success will
Be nurtured
& coming home
Is a pleasure.
A price I can
Currently afford
But as my
Success grows
Can be added back
Unto them…
I can feel
The constriction
Lessen,
Just writing it out.
