The street is lined with houses
that have forgotten how to breathe anything
There are broken windows
through which I see hopeful eyes staring and crying
trapped in homes that
reek of wait that yields more wait.
The street is lined with trees that never grew.
The roads cling to the snow that never melts.
We all have learned how to go deaf to cries of help
(that’s what growing up means?)
and walk home to our own tragedies-
some we suffer, some we create
and some we never stop.
There is a fierce calmness
that holds me together
even when I think
that I will fall apart.
Seems like falling apart
is not that easy
for those who lived in pieces
that they never knew they had.
So I will turn deaf
to the words of love
that presumes that it knows me.
So I will kill time
with preaching words of self-love
that I struggle with everyday.
I will fill myself with the stars above
And I will learn to live
and learn to die.
And wait with dread
for the day I’ll feel complete.
I don’t want to be complete.
I know how to be broken.
Being broken is what I do best.