Maybe she wants to
but can’t
maybe the day
can turn into the night
maybe the bedsheets
are too tight
maybe the words
are all right
but can’t see the horizon
without an internal fight.

Maybe the poems mean
not a thing
meant for all, it may seem
maybe she thinks too much
analyzes each touch
maybe she transfers all her pain
to the man who likes her rain
that drenches him
makes him quite insane
with longing
and begging for more
as she is stuck in her bedroom door.

Maybe she will
maybe she won’t
no clear cut bill
in her mind
as she juggles
the sex, the passion, the treasure
she will find
that lies in his grasp
hugging her close
undoing the clasp
she locked away
a long time ago
when art and beauty
were her flow.

Maybe she hates him
for letting her know
about his every whim
maybe the magic
will be more tragic
than she can imagine
fuck the songs, the fashion,
the poets
the writers
the philosophers
the moment
fuck it all
as she dives head first
into the unknown fall.