Take your curses with you.
Take your fears. Take your unease,
Take the dry rot crumbling in the place
you make decisions.
This is my house.
This is my love.
This is a love poem, because
sometimes, love lives in a roughed-out shack
that lets the wind through and you have
to plaster the walls.
Love deserves a home with solid walls.
Love deserves windows
with curtains and shades and a door that locks.
Love deserves to be welcomed; love deserves
a guest room and love will return the hospitality
in spades, and let you linger by its fire.
Love deserves a warm house,
safe from wolves and gavels and the Texas legislature;
Love deserves your good whiskey and a chance
to tell its stories.
Love deserves open hearts and open doors
and a place it can call home,
where it has the right
to live free from fear,
yours and mine both.
About the Creator
Dane BH
By day, I'm a cog in the nonprofit machine, and poet. By night, I'm a creature of the internet. My soul is a grumpy cat who'd rather be sleeping.
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Day 4 of Quitting
If this is how sobriety feels, maybe it’s better to go through life a little buzzed… this, along with other hits like, I want to kill myself, I wish I was dead, and I’m going to throw myself off a bridge have been the only thoughts on rotation these past few days. I promise myself that if, in a month, I still feel like this (‘this’ meaning despondent, full of rage, and simultaneously numb) I can go back to smoking. Until mid-February though? Nicotine is off the table.
By sleepy drafts6 days ago in Longevity
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