Once, spatterings of who I am would drop
onto the page with the certainty of gravity.
They poured like rain in an empty jungle
silent and secret. And when I opened
the road to me, you tore out
some of my simple sheets to paper
the walls of your hidden places.
Your smiling oughta’s and supposed-to’s,
my shoulda’s and what-if’s, all have dammed me,
punishing with expectation, confining
my thoughts, hopes, even loves.
I can’t reach in to clear them out.
I am stranded somewhere between an ocean
and desert with nowhere to turn.
So I will wander around this page
today, maybe even tomorrow, looking
for a home, hoping I can find another
route to that lost me. Whether
you come along is up to you.
I can’t tell you what to do.
I can only tell you.