Private Practice

When people ask me what I do
I'll tell them I have a private practice
Because it's easier than saying
I write these secret poems about you
The kind I put on my blog
But not Facebook
Because I know that you'll only find them
If your searching
Which unveils the care you're hiding from me
That in silent rooms you shout me
Breathing in the echo of my name
The thrill of testing you
Supplements that of loving you
And using words as intense as love in my poems
When thy're premature
When I'm not sure I feel them yet
You've changed my writing
I've lost the internal rhythms and rhymes
Things are less calculated now
I'm not writing to impress
To improve my craft
I'm writing to understand my own thoughts
For the first time I've become the reader
They're products of empty moments
Quality time between me and my head
I'm rejected the impulse to continue with what sounds good
What will transform this into entertainment
I'm not basing it off the story
I'm trying to write it
You should be proud
You've got me naked
Not dressed in embellishments and false passion
Crafting theatrical affections
Over and over until I've convinced myself they're real 
I'm not accustomed to falling in love without my pen
Confliction and affliction
My inability to determine if any of it is sincere 
Is foreign to me
I'm wrapping my arms around an unfamiliar form 
Because for the first time in my career 
There is no audience
I'm writing these (love?) poems for myself
They're not meant for page viewers
Or acclaim
Reception is insignificant
And I can't explain how bizarre it is for me to own my own art
I thought I've sold the rights to my work
To pay for my creative license
It's terrifying to have this power
The liberty to write honestly
Not eloquently
But no one wants authenticity
Love is blindness
Talent is facade
Adoration's expiration date
Is until deemed realistic
And I can't be a public figure 
With a private practice.


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