After we have parted.

There is never real joy,
In the days you're there.
Not for me.
Everything feels tarnished,
No matter how much you smile.

I have lost,
Whatever trust there may have been.
I am anxious in your presence,
And I carry it with me,
For hours after we have parted.

Focusing on giving

The words of a stranger hit home today.
I took his words and made them mine.
Not in plagiarism, not in rhyme.

I simply saw myself in his words.
Words he did not speak for me,
But nevertheless they spoke to me.

I saw how I have been feeling, and living,
Through an old mans view on life.
They were beautiful, true, and cut like a knife.

They pared away the guilt I've felt,
For how I've been feeling and living.
Closing my eyes to loss, and focusing on giving.

Not in spirit.

Part of me wanted to hide today.
To shut myself in a warm, dimly lit corner,
And just be me.
Me without interruption.
Me without questions,
Without other people's looks,
Just me.
To sup, taste, read, breathe and be.
Instead,
I did what I always do.
I was there in body,
Moving, responding,
Anticipating, preparing, reacting.
Not in spirit.

Not in spirit.

When I am tired.

When I am tired,
You are too much,
For my brain to concentrate,
On the things on which,
My brain should concentrate.
There are mistakes.
There is frustration,
And it all feels,
Ever so much harder.
Like the dripping tap,
Or the barking dog,
Your enthusiasm,
Peppers my mental frame,
With armour piercing bullets.
As you shatter my calm,
So I taint your joy,
And that gnaws at me.
That pains me.
I am not who I want to be for you,
When I am tired.

Back on the wheel

I walked the block today.
Just to not move on to the next thing.
For a brief respite from the list.
Five minutes, or less, of childish freedom.
Autumn leaves crunched underfoot.
Cold wind threatened my hat.
I stared at buildings.
I took deep breaths.
I smiled at strangers.
Then I was back at the car.
Back on the wheel.

Predictable

I suspected.
I did not know.
You are predictable.
Though you say, not so.
Random aspects,
All, you say.
But the pattern,
Gives the game away.

My bird flies home.

I'm looking at you.
Where does the time go?
On taking us there,
The to and the fro.

On rushing you ready,
You grumble, I moan.
On shopping and chores,
In moments alone.

On cleaning and washing,
Wiping and feeding,
Through precious moments,
We are now blindly speeding.

I miss our time,
Holding hands as we walked,
The giggles, the smiles,
Lighting eyes as we talked.

So I cherish in the moments,
You still curl in to me.
When my bird flies home,
And sets my heart free.