Sometimes when I write or speak, or dream,
It’s like someone slashed open a vein,
And my feelings, like life-blood, would
Splash and spray and freely flow.
But sometimes there isn’t even a drip, it seems.
I used to worry, people sometimes would say
I’m heartless and my scowl is at them,
Or think it. But it’s not. They don’t know.
Some people think they’re saying they like me
They think they’re encouraging; I’ll be O.K.
But by comment or thought, I’m condemned
Despite their intent of a blessing to bestow.
Sometimes I’d like to write, speak, or dream
But my heart is too empty, or full of pain,
And I’ve run out of feelings, bad and good,
And escape routes. There’s no where to go.
I need a season of pie with whipped cream,
I’m dry, stonehearted, I need the sun and rain,
Like rosin to the viola bow, oil to dry wood,
Dead seed, to bud, to blossom, blossom to grow.