the thief of me 6/11/19

I am a thief of my own solitude.

can’t be there in the first person,

attempt to eavesdrop instead.

try to overhear what is being said,

not so much for the words

but clearly for the feeling

and its place of origin within me.

can’t leave it alone

but can’t easily stay.

am a foreigner to myself 

in some strange way.

there is a place within 

that knows me better

but won’t reveal in my everyday life.

wants the sight of inklings 

and blind passion out of me.

I don’t have cause,

so bound by indifferent reasoning.

I wish to call out from within

but not enough of me willing

to let it unknowingly out.

to risk a hurl I can’t source.

let go as if I am my keptness

and released from sensibility 

and composure ordained by others.

to say what is so, 

from far within me 

but can’t be heard, 

even by me

until I have said it.

compelled then 

to defend and account.

not free to be. 

if that is what is the call,

then still want a deeper truth within me

to set me in motion,

to speak through me

and let out that say 

as if to open the floodgates

to where heart-feel is without restraint,

where the shortcomings of logic

do not stop or stall me 

from letting it all come forth

gutsy, without hesitancy 

or a need for other’s approval.

to be a wellspring upon myself.

to share where the fire within

needs no tending or further council.

to be a channel of human connection

as a given with expediency and warmth.

and so, I am a thief of my own solitude,

a bandit, a burglar, a charmer,

and a cheat.

I moonlight to my own dreams.

I would plunder my rational mind.

I would embezzle precious moments

to plead for their full time release.

I would steal from my own feelings,

feelings left buried deep inside as if captive

and bleed them all over into my being

to give me the clarity and strength

to risk what comes through me as me

rather then pose and project and render.

but for now, 

I am the spirit as a thief of me.

and my solitude is 

only a disconnect from my soul.

for I have to feed who hungers within.

even if I steal in good conscience,

to become from the origin of me . . .