Sitting on a bench waiting for you to wake up

please don’t dismiss me
while dismissing my inability to come
out of myself
long enough to express
how perfectly you push
all my buttons

i just want to be good for somebody
i just want someone to care about
what is good for me
and since I don’t know
can we build it together?

because the bricks don’t fit and
I like windows but
these ones are freaking me out

are the floors supposed to creak this much?
should the mattress be up off the ground?
the temperature is perfect
and if I close my eyes I can smell you —
so I want to call it home but
I don’t think the water is running yet,

though we know I might try.
I’m far to tempted to say
“go find someone that is what you want
and leave me alone”
for I know that in effigie 
will always outshine
in esse 

A note from the poet: I likened my ideas to matches this morning, and my notebook like a pile of flint. There always seems to be the potential for a spark, but when I’m writing poetry it seems I work through a slew of matches very quickly. So lately, when I’ve tried to consider writing fiction, it feels like I don’t have any matches left. My notebook, these thoughts, feelings, observations that I collect each day, they need a little kindling. Maybe I’m just not quite sure what I’ve got to say anymore. Poetry is my own truth, fiction feels like it should be a little more universal. A raging bonfire that collects people around in a circle. A poem demands less, it can be a small as a lit cigarette being passed between two people.

Discuss

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s