What You Have

It settles in like
A warm fog
Born of nights that
Last too long
And dreams that
End too soon

The wanting is to blame

Motions pass the hours
Till the sun
Breaks through the clouds

Bringing with it
Salvation
In the form of
Truth

To throw away
What is of value
For the sake of
Wanting more

More of that very thing

Is in essence to break
One’s own heart
To spite it and
Render it mute

In the name of
The ego
At the expense
Of what is real

There is no hurry
To get to the more
The more is now
The more is here

It is having the heart
To understand

That this very thing
You want more of

Is golden in its own
Right
As it exists in this moment

What you want
Is what you have

Bemoaning the ends

 

She undergoes in the name of love endless insult,

everything a means to an end,

comprised of acts against nature involving

 

hot wax

razors

foul smelling creams

food deprivation

scissors

tweezers

bar-bells

treadmills

abortions

a high priced psychoanalyst

eye liner

carrot juice

and the observation and feigned enjoyment of such pastimes

  as football, tv, and Nascar

… to name a few.

 

Please him, please him, please him,

she has been taught since infancy.

Never did anyone suggest please yourself.

She spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

In the end, it always ends.

 

She wanders from place to place,

repeating the cycle,

through the good years,

the years of her youth,

the years she can never get back.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

Till one day, something snaps, something changes,

and now she chooses which acts of nature

she will violate and why,

and there is no him to please anymore;

they have stopped lining up at her door

 or she has told them all to leave,

she doesn’t know which.

 

It is quieter now,

she is more focused,

and she doesn’t feel guilty nearly as much,

though she still spends a good deal of her time

looking in the mirror and weeping.

Bemoaning the ends.

 

It is not that she has given up on love.

It is that she has a different understanding

of what the word means than she used to.

 

Then one day she meets someone she thinks

maybe she could love someday,

the right way,

the way love was intended.

 

She admires this man,

she respects the way he faces his demons,

and in his presence,

she feels lighthearted and joyous

in a way she has not for years.

 

He says he wants to be her friend,

and he cries when he confesses

he cannot give her more.

 

She looks in the mirror and weeps.

Not from sadness; after all, she can give no more in return.

Not from happiness; where was he twenty years ago?

Not even from habit.

 

She weeps because his hesitations are her own,

his fears, as fresh and raw as hers,

His reasons as old and familiar as the skies.

 

She realizes he may find it easier

to walk away than to walk toward,

and she will end up, once more,

 

Bemoaning the ends.