Sunlight

The windows of this jav are clean.

That makes me comfortable, it shows care.

Care isn’t love though.
 

If this was a loved car,

It would be all clean.

Not just wiped down,

So obvious bits gleam.
 

Why can’t I stop myself from seeing,

the familiar, cloudy brown, bottoms and sides?

The pane still stumbles on unidentifiable grains

as it slides.
 

Love is expressed, in the corners, the cracks,

Away from the flat, accessible surfaces,

Away from the places that are easy to reach,

easy to shine,

Deep. In the crevices, we’d rather hide.

Love reaches in, through, underneath the lies.

The musky smell, and the tout tapping me,

remind me…

This is not my ride.

You are a space, not meant to be mine.

 
But the windows of this mat are clean.

So the sun falls on my skin, unfiltered.

For some reason, that leaves me lifted.

Reminding me…
 

Sometimes, care is enough.

So today, it may be ungrateful

To demand love.

Poetry DTR

She.
She is a tease,
She turns on her heels,
When I’m down on my knees.
She doesn’t aim to please.
She just is.

She, is the ornament,
My infernal tournament
An aching torment.

She…

Is a breeze, through the trees,
Coconut and Neem painted leaves,
Jacaranda,
Buganvillia,
Cheeky dreams.

She. Is a dream that
I call into being.
She is a greed I will
Agree to beyond the need
For meaning.

She makes me leave the house
Forces me to get dressed up.
She makes me wear my soul on my sleeve.
Makes me cover the tab.

She beats me down.
Till I swallow my pride.
She strips me, of my pretense,
Lays me bare on my bed,
heart throbbing and legs spread.

She heals me…

I, will walk to the ends of the earth for her.
I will kneel on the floor,
Covered in battle scars.
I will water the lawn with my blood.
For her, I will fight.
Tip my pockets inside out.
I will brave my demons,
For her.

Sacrifice for her.
I will beg and borrow to provide for her.
I will leave home,
Not knowing how I’ll get back,
Take her to the many places she lives,
And make her know:
She is at home with me.
But, she stays when I have to go.
Later, without having to open the door,
I’ll find her spread
across my desk.
A creative mess.
Waiting for me, to address her.
Undress her,
Confess to her, that it is me
That can not ever leave her.

She likes the camera,
Loves the pen, the paper.
She knows that she is a star
and I am nothing without her.
I faulter.
She doesn’t seem to want to have my daughter.
She would rather she, were my only child.
My only smile.
Or else, she would want to split the bill sometimes.

I, will not commit to her.
I’m not sure she commits to me.
I just, cant help conceding to her
predetermined victory.

We will be, for as long
As we can be.
I can’t remember much before we, were we.
I love her,
Maybe more than she loves me.
Perhaps.
I adore her.
I lay all at her feet.
She is sweet, not like a baby, like sugar.

Last night, she blew my world off it’s feet.
She flew in, and magic carpet, carried me.
To a place where I could speak from my truth,
To a multitude, who told me that they heard me,
In their different languages.

And my goddess resumes her throne,
Amongst the living
As a Queen.

I love you,
               Poetry.

I hope one day,
   I can ask you…

‘Will you, marry me?’

Guys, I Can’t Afford To Be A Poet.

As a child, at an age six I stopped finding the phrase;

“Your a poet and you didn’t even know it”

Funny.

Because, I did know.

Until Twenty Three, I thought it would only be,

Only in writing.

 

Then, I did my rounds, sometimes ten in a month.

Dues must be paid, when you work with your mouth.

My day job also requires investment.

Running a business in its teenage years,

Doesn’t pair well with expensive hobbies,

Or weekends of beers.

 

Unfortunately the “This is a new event”

Line, cares little for whether I arrive home fine.

In this world, a girl my age, in her right mind,

Doesn’t travel alone past a certain time.

But the passion that burns my insides,

Won’t allow me to say “No.” Even when

You wouldn’t give me a comp or two,

To ensure I’m accompanied on my home route..

Makes me wonder; If I don’t make it home.

Would you keep a straight face, at my funeral?

Saying:

She, was one of Ours.

She, wrote and performed for hours.

She, may still be here, if she hadn’t picked a poem with so many bars…”

Or should I just wise up now and say “No.” From far.

Because

Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet.

 

There is something,

Something,

Revealing,

About standing and speaking.

It’s rather like getting undressed.

So you, seduce me, with acclamation, singing…

“Would you let me, see beneath your beautiful?

Would you let me, see beneath your perfect?”

Then, with your actions, and no other words,

Say; “It wasn’t worth it.”

“Not even what it cost you to get here.”

Guys, its breaking my heart,

And I know I have fans, but

Guys, I can’t afford to be a poet..

 

I give with my right hand,

I give with my left.

So I don’t have an eating hand left.

In the interests of self preservation, I write,

To get what’s on my mind, off my chest.

In the interest of self preservation, I find,

That I can not afford to invest.

In what gives nothing back for my time,

When I’ve given my best.

So guys, before my inspiration is empty,

Of the little left of my strength,

And I stand before you, as a ghost of myself.

Let me stop, to say. If it goes this way,

I…

I can’t afford, to be a poet.