Gypsy Living

I'm tired
I've written of a love I'll never taste
A dried up tongue
From cutting up too many words
With my hate
With my haste

And I'm cold
My fingers frozen to the bones
Still they type away
Poems
That will never be read
Like Emily Dickenson
I'd rather be dead than publish

My secrets aren't dark
And they aren't anything new
But cut me open, and this
Is all that I am
A broken spirited disaster
With a splash of art
The one thing I can always love
That won't tear me apart

I am human, I bleed
I feel what others feel
My empathy knows no bounds
It vibrates off my skin
and pours out of my eyes
It floats until it finds it's way up
To some heaven beyond our skies

I hope to one day travel
I'd like to see the world
And I wonder what it'd make of me
A simple, vacant girl...
I've never felt quite whole
I'm only a half; a piece
I'm looking for some dirt from France
To complete the rest of me

I want to taste the accents
On the words that make me smile
And feel rain on my skin
That's traveled over desert miles
I just might give up love
If it meant a gypsy living
The only thing that stops me
Is fear of my own empty,
bitter ending.