It is difficult...

I suppose that I could stop there,

but I've grown to understand.

As years wear on I watch my
roots grow older as
time passes and
I see reflections of who
I will be and
am.

I am a sensitive soul
and often very intense and
easy to
offend.

I get unreasonably angry
and unfathomably
sad.

Don't be surprised if I
take things too personally
but,
my apologies,
I feel it all hard
in a cumbersome
soul.

I never stop caring,
far past expiration,
because with some people I
literally fall
hopelessly in
love.
(In more ways than one
not all love is
flesh
pressed on
flesh.)

This is what causes solitude,
and distance
and periods of
hiding
misunderstanding
and unfounded
shame.

The smell of a summer night is
something I wish that
I could write down and
send express post paid
to people who
have seen me
cry.

But you see,
most people don't think like this.

They are ducks and
time is water on their backs
and we don't understand each other
at all.

If smoke brought not cancer
and wine mayhem,
then you would find me somewhere
years in the past
sitting at a table
outside a tiny, shed of a two-bed
with a dreamlike company
and
wide-eyed wonder
at what tomorrow
might
bring.




For the ghosts