A blues poem.

And so I stand here waiting
Waiting for the right choice to appear
Wondering hoping the way will come crystal clear

Do I listen to my heart, my head
Do I put the matter to bed
Do I consider myself first or my son instead

But maybe it’s the same, he and I
What serves me serves him, my sweetie pie
At sleep four days a week we’ll lie

And he’ll be in my heart and I in his
His father too, whom I may never again kiss
But that’s okay because it’s not him that I miss

I miss myself, my life, my identity
Respect isn’t just a song, it’s a need for me
Alone it will be mine, soon, you’ll see

Sometimes you need furniture to get started
A sofa, a bed, a picture can fix what was parted
To bring the you away from which he darted

To collapse on to a cushion
After tears and pain and suffering
The bliss of slavery followed by freedom

The process must continue, go on
To find myself, a mask to don
Until I believe, I need a magic wand

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