Flop Houses of the Soul
I told you to vacate my premises,
but you don’t,
you never will.
You’re a squatter,
a dirty, filthy
I don’t know when you moved in.
You’ve lived here as long as I can remember.
It seems you walked up the steps,
with bags in hand,
when I was around the age of 9 or 10,
but maybe memory fails me.
Maybe you were here all along,
hidden in the attic,
locked away from the neighbors and visitors,
because you weren’t like all the others.
You might be an embarrassment.
At some point you came out,
and settled in some room,
in my soul hotel.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!!”
I have screamed at you,
sometimes over and over again,
for years. . . . .
to no avail.
At some point I decided to just
let you be. . . .
Let you continue to occupy the space
I had hoped might one day be taken up by healing and hope.
I accepted that you were never going away,
you, like some piece of bad furniture
you can’t throw out because it belonged to a long dead family member.
Now I embrace you,
and leave mints on your pillow each night before sleep,
as though you were a guest,
that you are.
*I had never thought about it before, but I might possibly need to start saying that my poetry, and writing, are mine, and not to be used by anyone else. I have seen others doing it, saying their items are owned by them, and maybe I need to add that disclaimer as well. Some day I might like to take all this bad poetry, and put it in a little book for posterity, and my son. Some day, my son will be grow enough to see who I really am, and hopefully love me even more.