You hold me like an anchor,
Like suicide ropes hold their beloved
Without fear for the soul sleeping silently within
And this soul rests like rosewater in a potter’s brown pot
Swaying like a ravenous blizzard who lost its mother.
You whisper my name and I become the words of a poem;
Unable to move, unable to have its own thought:
“Why does your pen only speak poetry?
Why can’t it tell a story?
Is it because you lack a creative mechanism to muster distinct thoughts?
Why are your speeches and steps scripted?”
Your words strike me like a knife in my chest dragged up to my throat, stuck underneath my chin,
But yet all I bleed is indecision and the inability to complete a poem
All because my anxiety has pretty hair and polished nails,
She wears a skirt and dark makeup,
And her steps are soundless;
Like rain piercing through clouds even when she wears heels.
But for now this soul will sway,
For now this poetry will speak,
And for now she’ll stay with me;
(Or perhaps it’ll be forever) And cause these tears to roll
Like rosewater from the soul.