this is not a good poem, just how i feel

do i call this home,
a place of loneliness
growing next to solitude
yes. it is my home

the cat watches my steps,
purrs on my lap
until he scratches,
just a wee bit, for love

there is nobody but me
and imagination, dream.
it is as it is.
after all, i am filled

with the fragrance of flowers,
filigrane leaves against light,
not only my hopeless heart
which must always be strong

i cannot be, nobody can.
i could be more like steel
resilient as a knife's blade.
i could be more like water

which closes over your hand
as if nothing was there.
but my blood sings another song,
my heart tells me to dare,

my brain to despair,
but i will not, will not.
i walk, i dream, i sleep,
nobody will know.

my insufficiencies
make me modest,
as much as i can be,
more i cannot see.

i do not know from where
my kindness flows, it does,
but so does the turmoil,
the storm, the thunder

so does the rain, i must
bear who i am and grow
until i am a tree, bent, old,
ready to burst and to fall,

to rot and feed the soil,
the grass and the bushes,
the flies and the birds,
a last song, a final dance

and then the wind
will take my dust
to the skies,
to the sea.