I'm hungry for the pieces I can't see
the strewn about bits and pieces of me
that lie between our scents and riffs on sixstrings
saxophone melody melencholy rhapsody...
we seem to freeze at the scent of blood
or water, air or gasoline
What drives this insecurity?
This doubt that has been born in me
through countless nights of crying through my sheets
and into morning with this mourning
for tomorrows great unknown.

You might just have to tell me twice
or thrice to get the message through
when I'm terrified of failing you
and setting like a star streaks through the sky,
burns up and goes,
when home just isn't home without your smile
and pictures don't exist.

.Pause.

Who is this piece directed to?
"When home just isn't home"
We fight
we scream and yell and turn our eyes
in heads too thick to understand
the words that twist as they fall from us.

Aha, perhaps
the culprit?
A deep-seated fear of conflict
or failure to achieve
in the eyes of prominant males?
Words that need voice
but first need an ear. a landing pad of sorts.

So where am I safe?
Could you hold me 'til sunset
and tell me you love me?
And make me feel smart?
Feel so pretty?
I'm parched for this feeling.
I'm dying of thirst.
I'm running to arms that don't understand
and I'm dying of silence
beneath this.

I am cliched and obvious,
stark and petty and right,
and still
the questions hang unanswered
in the air.

07/13/2005

Posted on 07/13/2005
Copyright © 2024 Trisha De Gracia