belong to me—
a forgotten log bench
in the woods, on the left-side of a mountain
under turning red and yellow leaves.
I keep being reminded
of who I don’t want to be
the mountain is beautiful—it hides mysteries
We want our work to be recognized, like the mountain
but part of us
wants to keep our secrets
It’s like the man you know
that only you know—or so you think
He keeps you alive
He is such a good thing
you want to share him
but to share him, is to adulterate his love for you
to share him, is to risk him being misunderstood
What is sacred, is so often only sacred to us
What has become sacred, carries no special significance to others
like a symbol of redemption
wore as jewelry.
Sometimes, I read sentences in a book
that are meant, only for me
but I know, they have been read, by thousands
if not millions.
There are the lines I write
only a few lines, that speak to me
never to be shared.
People buy art, to show it off
I buy art
There is a world out there
that doesn’t want to understand
they think the ideas of the past belong to them.
7 billion on the planet
thinking, they’re special
I’ve been thinking… I don’t know anything.
Even in the height of my understanding
I can’t know people
because I don’t understand myself
the mountain is a mystery
it offends some, with its steepness, and briars, and rough rocks
and it waits for the man
to walk off the trail
its hidden bench
on a popular hike.