Bustin Loose

I feel the need to bust loose
get out of that box you fixed
taped up the sides and folded
seems you want me unmixed.

I am not one dimensional
nor fit neatly within your scope.
Expectations are rarely simple
making it harder for one to cope.

I react within and out of the box
at times just need to be alone.
Walk away from contacting folks
and bury that damn phone.

Your devotion, always been clear
but you fall over yourself to help.
Never allowing me room to waver 
or to flutter like seaweed kelp.

Can't I just scream and yell out
sometimes just to find my inner soul.
You want to scoop me up and hug
smother me within your mold.

Hugs and kisses are always nice
as is loving from one who cares.
Yet, at times need to sit on the porch
alone, give the stars a lingering stare.

No way you can feel the emotion,
the trauma I might feel inside
when she falls off into that abyss
that seizurey awful hidden ride.

Recovery is slow and painful
striking at whatever might be.
I have to ride it out with her
slowly return from that dark sea.

Then I need time to recover
from the sorrow and the waves.
That scary wonderment of hell
asking will the next time be saved.

Nothing can massage the hurt;
no planning nor joining force.
Crying, screaming, yelling loudly
serves only to make me hoarse.

Certainly in a normal world
I could and would speak clearly
and respond to your need to be
the smotherer, loving dearly.

Yet my world is not normal
nor in that neatly wrapped box.
It slips and slides on a slope
as if always fishing from rocks.

Your heart is pure and full
to always want to appease
yet leaves not an inch of space
for me to step out and squeeze.

You must at sometimes ask
or at least give a thought
could you be overreacting
if I don't respond as you sought.

To be on the alert is good
to wait may be even better.
But can't you allow a little space
beyond your created letter.

To be disappointed and angry
because "you" chose to wait.
Not considering my emotions
are always heavy at the gate.

My response to your pain
is not going to rub your itch.
Maybe you need to look closer
at the way I toss and twitch.

Poncing on me when suffering
leaves no room to get out
of that box you alone create
as your anger builds to a pout. 
 
I need room to suffer in peace
to recover from my confusion.
Your hurt comes from your own
created thoughts of illusion.

Cause I didn't or don't run to you
each time I am rocked with hurt
spills the milk of contention
like a busted spout that spurts.

Try a little tenderness and relax
maybe even some Mother Goose.
My box is open but at times 
I feel the need to bust loose.

Del Cano 2005 July