What It Is

It’s that boy that won’t leave your bed
When you plead with a weaning smile
For that sacred bit of linened privacy.

It s those poetic descriptions that just will not come,
Despite all your begging and prodding to the otherwise;
Even with the careless ambition of Icarus,
Still doomed to Sisyphean routines
Of nothing new to say and old holds on truth.

It’s the emptiness of Home after creating a life
And the little chips of your nerves fluttering to the floor,
Knocked away by the all-assuming family, but with love.
Because if they love you, then that makes it seem alright.

It’s the stutter and squelching of saying what you mean
To the people you know need to hear it,
Torturing them for no other reason than broken confidence
Or that sad, by now comforting, cowardice.

It’s not what you are now, but what you wanted to be.

And when you find it, I would appreciate if you would tell me.