You are the practicality that keeps me grounded;
I am the spontaneity that drags you along.
You are the reason to my irrationality;
I am the tumult to your calm.
You are the answer to my questions;
I am the words to your quiet deeds.

You are the engineer I cherish;
I am the bookworm you esteem.
You are the chef I rate as top;
I am the baker you adore.
You are the handyman I can count on;
I am the seamstress you prefer.

They say opposites attract, and it seems that might be true.
Like two pieces from the puzzles we both love,
We fit together seamlessly.
To be cliche, you complete me,
But in ways I never knew weren't whole.

The words tumble from my lips
before I can stop them.

I’m sorry.

He tells me to stop apologizing.
I – catch myself before I say it again.

I don’t know why I feel compelled
to offer up this utterance as a surrender
when I’ve done nothing wrong.

It’s become a habit that I can’t break,
this expression of contrition
where no sin is apparent.

And so I wonder...

What is it I’m apologizing for?
If it’s my words,
why can’t I own them?
If it’s my actions,
why can’t I back them?
If it’s myself,
why can’t I love me?

I mean what I say.
I trust what I do.
I like who I am.

It is time to stop apologizing.

People ask me all the time what my major is, what I’m going to do with my degree, as if that somehow defines me, somehow is a mold into which I should fit. As if being a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer, a mechanic, or a nurse makes me real; as if calling myself a statistician, a technician, a psychiatrist, an ophthalmologist, a zoologist, a gynecologist, an herbologist is any more definitive than calling me by name. Because somehow the letters AA, BA, MFA, LDS, EE, DD, or PHD are supposed to make me who I am.

I cannot be defined by the classes I took or the papers I wrote or the tests I failed. I am far more complex than that and I refuse to be satisfied with a label, so when you ask me what I’m doing in school, what I’m going to do afterward, and I tell you I’m gonna teach home economics, don’t look at me like I’ve gone off the deep end, like I’m wasting my brains and wasting my time and wasting my money, like I’m negating every feminist victory and reinforcing female stereotypes. Don’t look at me like I’m never gonna make a living, never gonna make anything of myself, because it’s my brains and my time and my money, my living and my self.

And how else can I be, how else can I fit my definition if I give in to the pressures of you, the pressures of him, the pressures of them, the pressures of it, and do what someone else thinks is right for me because they want me to be defined by what I do instead of who I am. I am a girl who snores when she’s sick and hiccups after she eats. I’m the girl who dated your youngest son and had a crush on your older brother. I’m the wild woman in love with her mountain man. I’m the girl that is sometimes eloquent and often awkward and twice as likely to hug you as shake your hand. I am the adult who eats peanut butter and jelly sandwiches with a tall glass of ice cold milk and the Floridian, who if offered a slice of pea-can pie would say “Don’t you mean pe-cahn?”

I’m the girl who loves to cook and cooks to love, and if you don’t know what I mean by that think of how a homemade meal makes you feel and then get back to me. Sometimes I’m the girl who crochets and is learning to knit, but I don’t know if I like it yet. I am a victim of the techie generation and I am helplessly addicted to facebook and youtube and myspace and stumble and twitter and flicker and all of that stupid stuff. I am a junkie who loves movies and has to get there early because it’s just not the same if I miss the previews and I’m the girl who loves to eat but hates to exercise and always complains about her flab.

I am the daughter of a sweet southern woman and a hard working ex-Marine and I am the sister to the brother who is almost taller than me and the granddaughter of the four most amazing grandparents you will ever have the chance to meet. I’m a family and consumer science major who loves biology and algebra and is fascinated with the manipulation of words and sometimes sings a song or two and used to play the flute and is practicing piano. I’m the girl who works in the weight room and turns on the light when you come to play racquetball in court number three and mops up those scuffs you left because you didn’t wear non-marking shoes. I’m the neighbor at your apartment who’s always sewing late at night and parks her car in your space.  

I’m a best friend, a sister from another mother, a daughter, a niece but not a nephew, one day an aunt, a roommate, a one-time lover, a student, sometimes a teacher, a cousin, an employee, a visitor, a customer, a someday-degreed-and-lettered member of society, but before that, during that, and after that, I am Jennifer Marie Cassell.

The dragon in me
Controls my thoughts and deeds;
At times propelling me forward,
Other times holding me back.

The dragon in me
Is whispering softly,
Building my confidence,
Riling my doubt.

The dragon in me
Does no fire breathe;
He really doesn't breathe at all.
He's merely my ego,
And I the knight
Trying not to be burned.

Life debris:
The pieces that define.

A shirt, a shoe, a ribbon, or a sock,
When seen day to day mean nothing at all,
But when scattered along the water's edge
Seem symbolic and slightly melancholy.

Each bit a small part of somebody's life
That is no longer there-
But does that make it any less whole?

What sort of debris will I leave behind?
Words and music and bits of crafty things,
Perhaps children and families,
And certainly friends,

For this is my life debris:
The pieces that define.

I hold the world in my hands.
It seems so
fragile
and small.

With it,
I can do what I will,

but
the possibilities

paralyze me.

It was neatly formed in my head last night,
And I thought to myself, "I should set this down right",
But my dreams were calling,
And I was falling
Into the arms of sleep.
So that one is lost, like its brothers ahead,
And this one is here to be in its stead.
A poor replacement, I am sure,
But it will just have to do
Until I can find
In a corner of my mind
That which is just out reach.

It's a melancholy kind of midnight as I sit here chasing dreams,
Whiling away the hours with my well-worn reveries.
Cocooning myself in a blanket of whimsy as the moonlight gleams,
I melt into a world where I am welcomed heartily.

Hope is a fragile thing
That should be well-kept,
But the best I can do
Is a box through which you can see.

In my glass box,
Lives all my hope;
And with that hope,
Live all my dreams;
And with those dreams,
Live all my fears;
And with those fears,
My inhibitions.

So take a peek
At the things that define me,
And wonder at the preposterous way
In which I was made.

And when you are through
Examining my soul,
I ask only this of you:

Hold out your glass box
And allow me
To look through you too.

Need an afternoon snack?
Try Shane's Rib Shack!
It's a place with a knack
For the most perfect rack.

Eat a pile or eat a stack.
Heck, eat a whole back.
I ain't lying; this ain't no flak.
The best rib place is Shane's Rib Shack!

I'm lying on my back
And staring through the trees
When suddenly
I realize!

There is a profound similarity between trees and knees.

For trees provide the life-sustaining oxygen
But are chopped and burned and mulched,
And knees aid in the ease of walking
But are scraped and knocked and bruised

I'm lying on my back
And staring past my knees
When suddenly
I realize!

Life would be nothing, were it but for trees and knees.

I miss the quiet nights, the trusted friends,
The movie nights that never end.
I miss the smells and sounds and sights,
The after-midnight-blinking traffic lights.

I miss the familiar streets and places,
And I miss the most the darling faces
Of friends and family and others  as dear.
Oh, to have them again so near.

Here, miles from where I set out,
I have friends who like me, no doubt.
They're just not the same as those old and worn;
Those precious ones whose distance I mourn.

I have a friend whose name is Fish,
But I'm not too sure why we call him this.

He's very tall, and his hair is red.
It used to be long, but not anymore,
'Cause he got it cut real close to his head.

He lives out on Highway Eighty-Five,
And sometimes I honk my horn
When I go past on my back-to-school drive.

He plays guitar with mad crazy skills
And works at Winn-Dixie
Because no one else will.

He goes to school to be an engineer.
(I think I forgot to tell you
That he's a pretty smart kid.)

Black is his favorite color, I guess,
And he wears it a lot,
Probably because it makes it easy to get dressed.

He's a skater guy, and once broke his wrist
But his cast was black,
Which made it kinda hard to sign.

He listens to metal and plays it real loud
Which always scares me when I try
To leave a comment on his myspace profile.

So now you know a little about my friend, Fish,
But I still don't know why we call him this.

We sit and we wait
For what we know not
It has no name or form
But each of us waits

We're sure it's what we want
But is it really?

It comes for a few
And they are overjoyed
We watch them leave, and we wonder
Have they found happiness?
Was it worth the wait?
Will it come for us?

And still we wait
Believing it will come for us
And we will dance with it always

Love
Is what we wait for
And it tantalizes us with its nearness
Laughing and dancing just out of reach
Our fingers slip and our grasp is not firm
And it scampers away again
Only to tiptoe near as we're about to give up
Leaning down to whisper in our ear

"Don't give up.
I'll come for you.
You just have to wait."

But love is a tricky being
It conceals and decieves
And waits for us to believe

Waits for us to fall head over heels
For us to smile and laugh
And for us to give our hearts

And when we do
Love steals our hearts and keeps them for its own

And so we sit and we wait
For what we now know

Its name is Love and its form is stolen hearts

Had I wings,
Then I should flit
From heaven to earth
To heaven again.

Had I wings,
Then I should float
From mountain to sea
To the river's end.

Had I wings,
Then I should soar
From steeple to rooftop
To chimney spire.

Had I wings,
Then I should glide
From plain to valley
To swampy mire.

Had I wings,
Then I should climb
To see God's face
In cloud's above.

Had I wings,
Then I should rest
On an olive branch
With a snowy dove.

Had I wings,
Then I should fly
From north to south
From east to west
And every place between,

Had I wings.

Why do we play these games we play?
They pull us in deeper everyday.

We're walking along a broken road
Where every step doth danger bode.
A step to the left, a step to the right;
One right step could end our plight.

Still, we pick one foot up
And set the other down,
Looking for some solid ground.

It heaves and sighs and thrashes about
Until we're not sure which way is up or out.

We know we should quit,
Yet continue on,
Looking for solace in tomorrow's dawn.

And will comfort come?
Well, who's to say?

You never can tell in these games we play.

I'm done with this.
I don't want a part in it anymore.
Leave me out of it.

I've tried to walk away,
But it follows me
Like the plague.

I banish it from my presence.
LEAVE ME ALONE!

I cannot function
With it so near.

It cramps my style,
Harshes my mellow,
Makes me nervous and unsure,
Anxious,
Breathless, but not in a good way.

I'm begging, pleading;
Get it away from me!
Make it stop.

End this torture.

raindrops on the windshield
glistening like stars
the darkness surrounds me
and warms my heart

the wipers are still
lest they erase
the beautiful painting
before my face

created by God
and admired by me
a quiet reminder
of the beauty
that He can create
if we'll only surrender
our whole selves to Him
and allow Him to render
our tarnished souls shining
and our dirty hearts clean

Swollen eyes
Clumped lashes
Damp cheeks
A runny nose

A fallen soldier
A heartbroken mother
A distraught lover
A devastated friend

All of it fiction.

So why am I crying?

Because I know.
I remember
What it feels like

To have your world fall apart,
Your love taken away

And I cry

Because it's never been the same.

I sat down today and began to type,
But nothing I said seemed to come out right.

The meter was all wrong,
The rhyme scheme was a mess,
The words were too simple,
The stanzas too plain,

So I decided to erase it
And start all over again.

A few backspaces later,
I started anew,
And with each keystroke,
My frustration grew.

My thoughts were garbled
And looked clumsy in print;
My words were childish
And seemed cliche.

So I tried one last time
To write something that made sense,
But instead of eloquent rhymes and articulate thoughts
I got ill-expressed musings and awkward phrasings.
Instead of a work of beauty and awe,
I had created a trite piece of junk.

And yet, I found attraction in its ungainly expression
And was fascinated by its candor.
Nothing was hidden in dreamy language,
Or couched in metaphors and vague allusions.

I was filled with a strange satisfaction
At having created such an unorthodox piece,
That evoked in me the simultaneous feelings
Of looking on a lovely, unappealing work.