Stop your manipulations...
and stop this fucking play,
stop with all the fear you sell that
you won’t tolerate my way
(I have to breathe).
This active parenting from a lover
is something I can live without,
how ‘bout you treat me as an equal -
and not your petulant child.
I have to cover the checks-and-balance
for what I choose to bleed -
so get the hell out of my life...
or give me room to breathe.
You knew I had neurotics...
before this whole thing rose,
phobia taunts and tears my mind
and pulls apart my prose
(just let me breathe).
I think you better step off a bit and
watch your goddamned mouth,
an invasion of the mind and soul -
that drives my love to drought.
It’s time for me to reap the harvest
of my rotting mental seeds,
so pack your shit and walk away...
or give me room to breathe.
I’m fighting all the tension...
the tautness of disguise,
and the stench of desperation that
floods my heart and eyes
(it’s time to breathe).
The lack of respect for who I am
is clear by what you say,
the nosebleeds from your pedestal -
I’m sure are quite a pain.
The eagle that’s been caged so long
must rise up and be free,
so head the fuck on down the road...
or give me room to breathe.
Original Copyright © 2008 Stone Bryson. All Rights Reserved.
Written January 2008
Known in many (albeit small) online circles over the past 15 years, Stone Bryson is a poet, storyteller, and essayist. He is working on various writing projects, and lives what he describes as an 'analog life.' He resides in Jackson County, Missouri.