A Poem.

How can I create if my house is not in order,
If the inspiration I choose renders me numb,
Stops my lips from forming the words I need to speak,
So that I might reap the benefits of that love?
Why should I come back,
To paths well worn,
And scenes remembered with retinal insistence
Upon a canvas now made of gossamer,
Too thin to bear the weight of paint;
The weight of colour now full of pain?
It hurts, but you don’t know that it hurts,
How much my heart is pressed
Within walls too thick to allow
The ease of breath I need to bring me back to life.
Who am I to be strong for?
Not you. Never you. Only you.
This heart broken by absence,
And wayward interceptions,
Of dawning comprehension
Of wordless declensions,
That seek to render me dumb,
To cut my tongue from my idling throat,
And to bind my hands into knots of indifference.
What shall I create with such vehement desire,
That cannot heal the pain you now cause me,
That this feeble tenure of self now causes me?
My desire to stay away for good
Redirects my footing,
Though the way before me now lies in darkness,
In part because I have no desire,
To inhabit a world without you.
Though, should that be better than a world without me?

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