Here,
Here I am.
I’ve always wanted to be
Here.
But not for long.

Talent is relative,
And mine is falling.

So I’ll be sent back,
Into confused arms.
They will welcome the love,
Though they will not understand it.
Why am I there?
Why am I not here?

I will try to fit in.
Return to my group of youth,
Look to find it and see it gone,
Remnants scattered everywhere I can see.

I will look for open arms,
That closed for me a long time ago.
And once I am alone again,
Which way will my mind go?

Wandering through mixed messages,
Solace will be found,
Buried,
In greying memories of me there,
Until they become memories of me here.

And then I will repeat my cycle,
My human cycle of dissatisfaction.

For what you miss there,
You will miss here.

Poetry is strange sometimes.
In the way that I'll write a poem,
Words flowing freely from my fingertips,
About all of it.
But when I read it now,
It almost feels like its about you.

Except I think you'd like my poetry.

Golden locks,
Like keys on a string,
With eyes of grey,
Like a calm, cloudy day.
Yet they shine like you,
Like their own hue.
One not defined by color,
By mind or soul,
But by you.
A gift it is to see that light,
And to feel it shine like rays just right.

Hand in hand,
Certain emotions go.
Like passion and envy,
Or anger and jealousy.

Like red and green,
They compliment each other.

Passion that fuels the envy.
Full of fire and frenzy,
Pulsating out.
The envy creeping in with tendrils,
A seething mass of resentment and desire.

Anger that provokes the jealousy.
Raging with pain and misery,
Seeping out.
The deap jealousy pooling,
A grasping puddle of hurt and greed.

I write but I don't know why.
I never wish to share it with anyone I know.
I don't wish to try and learn to write,
Nor to try and pursue a career.
So why do I write?

Is it really all to send a message?

Hidden under countless sheets,
Behind lock and key,
Like I'm scared they'll see.

I really do love poetry,
The way it feels to write,
To feel.

But I find myself embarrassed,
When in conversation,
A poetic stream slips out, free across the screen.

I don't know why I fear it so,
Or hope that it would go,
But I wish I didn't feel like this.

It's true that it's poetry I miss.

Up and down,
Thats the way life turns,
Round and round,
Like a swirl of water in a bottle.
Like a bottle.
Like I bottle.
Bottle it all up deep inside.
Until the bottles burst,
Until the stress is pouring out of my ears,
Until my head is just full of glass shards
And shattered emotions.
And I'm just left frantically running,
Pacing,
Like a chicken missing its head.

And so I tell myself to pour it out,
At least till I can clean up,
Find some new bottles,
Feel some new things,
Before we start all over again,

Because the bottles will have fallen.