Sometimes I drink tea at night,
and hold it close to my chest
that stays frozen all the time.
Sometimes I let words of praise
get to my head
infecting it,
floating up there,
like bubbles in a ginger ale,
until it floats me up
into the cloud land
of who I think I am.
Sometimes I ask instead:
"Who do you think you are?"
A poet?
Or no,
maybe just a fool.
You are not patient,
You have patience,
but you don't hold it
tightly enough
because when the wind changes,
it flies away.
Sometimes you are quiet
in contemplation
in observation
Others, you are but a blank stare.
A void in a body
Walking dull, blurred.
Who do I think I am
when I look through the
mirror of the car passenger seat,
and who do I think I am
when I want to take back all I say
but don't let myself.
I'm trying to teach myself
freedom
but I turn my chest to ice.
I help myself with tea at night.