I’m used to watching people’s backs.
It’s a feeling all too familiar
and I’ve seen all sorts of disasters.
But you’ve got three circles once freshly painted
red but now stained bruise blue.
Where ex-boyfriends would target practice at;
scars from where they backstabbed you.
I’m glad you’ve stopped living upside down.
Everything was crashing up for you.
My only question to you is:
How does it feel to live your life without a puppeteer?
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I’m sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I’ll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I’m like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn’t come here of my own accord, and I can’t leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I’m going to say.
I don’t plan it.
When I’m outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.