Apparently I have the audacity to try and write poetry now.

I wrote this all a while ago now though, just finally typed it all up...fyi I say maybe too damn often.

Anyways, here's:

Three related poems about how we relate to each other

1.

My heart is Bates motel, your heart is an open field of flowers.

My motel only has one room, a single occupancy business.

Maybe many people can stop and smell your roses…picnic in your field, easy come easy go.

I don’t mean it like that – I’m not calling you a slut. But what I’m trying to say is that a motel requires payment. Not just anyone can fill my vacancy, I need insurance. But a field doesn’t care who’s on it, as long as they enjoy the view. And a field cannot enforce a policy for people to leave it as beautiful as they found it.

But our hearts weren’t completely separate entities.

Maybe your flower field is a town – population of 2.

Maybe one resident is a gardener or has to be.

I built my motel in the middle of your town. Maybe I was the gardener.

Maybe you were my paying patron.

But you ran out of money, and I couldn’t keep the water running while we were in a drought.

2.

Something to be said

about dandelions but,

that’s not how I feel.

3.

If you are a field and I am a building,

you need shelter, I need land.

Maybe we tried to build a home.

But your earth reclaimed my structure,

or my structure dried you out.

My dilapidated house gave way.

It fell and the weight of the wood, or brick, maybe concrete

crushed your flowers and left a patch of dead earth underneath.

Maybe my broken house bones weighed on you for a long time,

choking you, gasping for air, dehydrated.

Desperate for a drink.

Maybe it was your friends,

maybe they were storms, tornados even.

Maybe they washed me away.

Maybe the weight of my rubble was so heavy

that you’ve forgotten that a storm is bad weather.

Storms serve a purpose; the trash is gone.

I am off of you, scattered about.

Parts of me landed in the many fields of other men.

I know that my pieces are missing,

but phantom limbs - I can feel it when they are touched.

Touched by ground I don’t care to stay or build on.

I can’t access all my pieces,

but when they touchdown, I at least know I’m alive.

I exist somehow.

Shattered but here,

I miss my solid ground.

I long to rebuild but I need new real estate.

When I build my new house, I know I have to build it differently.

I don’t even know if I’ll ever get all my broken pieces back.

Some I think are lost forever, along with any innocence.

It will be a well-worn house, new - but used.

Reclaimed wood, brick, and concrete - maybe some marble this time.

The last place I saw myself whole was in your flower beds.

It’s all I can think about.

But I can’t collect myself and go back to rebuild in your field.

It’s muddy now anyways.

The storms that washed me away have stayed

and you were so damn thirsty,

you’ve been drinking.

Drinking in the storms,

your soil is soggy.

I hope there’s not a mudslide.

I couldn’t bear it if you were washed away like me.

I want your field to be beautiful.

You are so beautiful.

Please stop drinking.

You’ll never grow again without the sun.

I was never the sun. I was never earth, or water.

A shit gardener, I’ve killed all the plants I’ve tried to save.

Maybe I was never the type of structure you needed.

Maybe my building needs a solid foundation to build upon.

Maybe I’m a skyscraper.

Maybe you need a treehouse.

The End....MAYBE lol.. we shall see if anymore crap decides to flow through me in the future.

XOXO - Garbage Gal