I’m writing this because we writers are a special breed.
Brave enough to bare it all for strangers,
But enigmatic in our relationships.
I’m been Mr. Mysterious for so long, I sometimes feel my masks wearing me.
The puppet to a few lives that have their own stories to manage.
Is the breakdancing managing the infinite grind of the graffiti tagged crocheted poem?
It all becomes very confusing.
I’m the crying baby,
The onset of the storm,
The first post-summer evening chill.
I’m always thinking,
I wish there were a simple switch to click and hush the voices,
To calm the busy.
My life is tv static.
Black gray white fuzz blurred.
A phrenic frenzy of emotions, ambition, and distractions.
A hopeless romantic with a penchant for bad decisions.
Until you.
You.
You live out loud.
A fighter with a heart held by Midas.
An artist whose fingers craft fiber and fables;
Whose skill garnishes tresses and tables;
Who knows relationship but knows not love.
You wave hands and hurricanes become hush puppies on plates.
You tap dance around tornados and out shine potential house fires.
But love leaves you beleaguered.
Matters of the heart hurt because he can’t connect with your art.
But as stars continue to shine, you remain brilliant.
And after giving up on looking for anything, you saw me.
Tinfoil reflecting the moon perigee.
We relate like umbrella flaps,
Protection from outside elements and tucking what we can in the folds.
Our time is matchbox;
Kisses, friction to flame.
When my passion boils and things don’t come easy
I shut down.
I don’t want to get out of bed.
I fight to dress in some semblance of happiness;
Another mask.
You. See. Me.
The eyes behind the flashy tie and button down.
You smile at the get-up and kiss the heart of the matter.
You are rocking the baby,
Rain on the windowpane,
Country air crisp in autumn.
You’ve been managing storms,
And I pray that I am helping.
You are everything and everyone you need to be.
I know. Because I see you.
Words don’t make sense.
Senses don’t make sense since…
Well since the beginning of this whole thing.
You feel right,
Like rain on a windowpane,
Like rocking the baby,
Like country air crisp in autumn.
I’m many things to many people.
But I’m one thing to you: Yours.
Thank you for helping me be.