What We Leave Behind

I can’t grow anymore

Because I refuse

All these plots of land I left behind beckon me to claim the cut roots.

They say they will blossom after the decay

But I don’t care...

You can’t fool me again.

My place is with the mess

Not what grows from it

Homecoming happens on my watch, which ticks off schedule.

God heralds to me as I roll the trash bin to the curb

It says, “Beckon to me any way you please! I listen. I’m all of it.

And none! Ha!” And disappears before clear vision sets in.

I pray to what I feel… Not often omnipotent

I yell and barter (& steal)

If it saw how all this got created, it must understand commerce.

Pluck me, I’m your fruit

Who am I to say no to this feeling?

I numb and breeze with the moonlit wind...

But all along I had left me so vulnerable

Like I forgot to stitch up a closing

I tire of people reaching in me & shaping my ways for their comfort.

Home is where I left a huge disaster

One I can’t bare to look at anymore

But it waits for me while I dawdle.

River side, back to another city I left behind

Parking alone by the hostel, unafraid but wary

Remembering the past, calling family like I should have done before.

Home is where we leave a mess behind.

I thought home was where my art has walls on which to hang

But it is not as clean a concept as we desire.