She wants to be who she is.
She wants to feel loved for who she is,
And who she wants to become.
She doesn’t want to feel guilty to feel needed.
She wants to feel beautiful.
She wants to feel strong.
She wants to feel like she belongs.
But if belonging means to solely coexist,
To feel like another piece of the scenery,
Then she doesn’t want to be anywhere remotely near it.
She wants to have romantic love.
A wish on her last days should not be to feel more loved,
But rather to have more days to spend with the one she loves.
Talk to me like I am the reason you breathe.
Talk to me like I am why you rise in the morning.
Talk to me like I am the last thing you want to see before you sleep.
Tell me I’m your everything.
And then show me, prove to me, that there’s no doubt in the world otherwise.
Tell me, because a woman needs to know.
And tell me authentically.
Don’t pour sugar over a salty wound thinking it will heal, only time and tenderness will do.
Throughout my time, I often point out the mistakes in writing, rather than absorb the beauty. It’s so easy to point out the negative, what they did wrong than what they worked so hard on and did right. I’ve been wired like this for a long time. They stick out so easily and prevent me from moving on to the beauty of the piece. Often I find myself questioning if it is in our nature or how we’ve been taught as a society to pick apart every detail and focus on what could have been better?
Recently I found you, you misspelled tag on a poem. And you too, you forgotten period at the end of a line. I found you too, you misspelled word in a poem about the sun shining down upon you. I see you all, and I think you do this to me on purpose, to know that we are not perfect, to know that poetry is life and life is not perfect, and love, love is not perfect either.
We are inevitably flawed and yet I wish it all to be perfect, and I want poetry to be perfect because it pours directly from our hearts and our hearts pour out the truest emotions in our poetry. Shouldn’t we strive to reflect our truest form in poetry?
It’s a battle of cyclical proportions: we are who we are and we show it through poetry, we strive to become someone or something and we show that through poetry, and we see what has been and we tell our stories through poetry.
So now when I stop at those forgotten opportunities of improvement I say, “I see you. I get you. I am you, too.” for we have all been that forgotten detail in someone’s story.
bore from the most arduous labor, its intoxicating fruit, its sweet blossoming fragrance, pulls in the strongest of hearts. as a vine snakes its way through the depths of a luscious secret garden, distinct impressions produce the richest aromas. even to an untrained eye, the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed.
the sweetest honey couldn’t go unnoticed; even to an untrained eye, the richest aromas produce distinct impressions. a luscious secret garden snakes its way through the depths as a vine pulls in the strongest of hearts. its sweet blossoming fragrance, its intoxicating fruit bore from the most arduous labor.
This poem appears in my poetry collection Coffee Shop Sessions: Whatever It Takes, Even If It Doesn’t Take available on Amazon.
I need words I need better words Words of joy Words of healing Words to console me in times of need Words of understanding Words to make me feel complete Words of love Words of compassion Words that show a deeper meaning than what appears in front of me
Words that you cannot find Words that you cannot express Words that will never enter your heart or mind And will never leave your lips
I need words to hang onto Words that lift me up Words that will make me want to come back to you Words that will make me want a future with you
Dear love, Thoughts of you the other day brought smiles. Today thoughts of you produced overrun swells in my eyes. The many years we’ve been separated, but how our hearts have always been close, how many more years will it be like this? Living in fantasy and memories all of the time is no way of living. The truth of what can never be, will I ever set these feelings free? This arrested state of bliss, of dreaming of our next kiss… and the pain of knowing that it may be a million years away. We’re so close yet always out of reach. I sit and dream of you, and wonder… will our dreams ever come true.
Images and words suddenly appear, words I’ve longed for hitting deep as they wrap around and envelop me, overwhelming yet satisfying.
Since our last meeting your ghostly presence arrived in the oddest of places: romantic restaurants, quaint cafes, art galleries, long car drives, concert halls, walking in a park, every room of the house, and late at night in bed.
Days leading up to the most significant life events, it was you always there intervening and me not finding the right words to express the emptiness, the loss, the longing, the wanting.
Reunions are great, they say, as long as you don’t have to deal with the past, as long as it doesn’t control your present, and as long as the flame doesn’t consume you.
Yet, here I am standing steadily in the burning flames with you again.