I am my grandmother tense,
and my mother frantic.
My grandfather suspicious,
and my father hot headed.
I am my brothers manic,
and my cousin confused.
But in the very end -
we are what we choose.

I do not have the time,
nor the energy,
to make myself consumable to you.
I am sweet to gluttony,
but sour to those who know me best.

I cannot lower myself,
in height nor heart,
to lose an inch on your ego’s behalf.
I am vibrantly tracing my path,
home grown roots of nothing less than sincerity.

I will not lose an inch,
becoming less than myself,
for your lost moral compass.
I am both the richest and the poorest,
cashing moments of free grandeur,
that you’ll later need answers to.

I should not feel bound to dance,
across the egg shells you toss,
apart from the breads I’ve broken -
I am an open book,
so I have broken more book binds
than hearts.

I hope you’re not offended.

My blue tavern house in old Giverny,
with yellow bright daisies as a welcome.
We've swam on the wheat banks,
diving in absinthe and dealing in apathy.
Kissing the swirling midnight skies in secrecy.

Dark blue cascades the midnight hills,
I've spent another night in the open fields  -
looking at hay bails like an old friend, and worst enemy.
I've met your sharp eyes at noon and known better,
with your white shirts, stained socks, and slick smiles.

I remember you told me of the women stealing jam,
east of La Seine near Clackaloze,
You said she reminded you of me,
good until gone, broken undeniably
and the way I say I could do it all quietly -
paint the shining night sky with ease and one brush.
But if I was what you wanted, I wouldn't be,
too stubborn, too jealous, and too mad, honestly.

So I may as well write you what I am - underneath.

When have I not been all of me
to soothe all of you.
Loving you past insecurity,
rubbing your back in
my small dim lit room.

I would have given you
my holy Sundays,
my boring Mondays,
and both my shoulders.
Just to hear you say,
“I Love You.”

Worth loving through
the doubts and terrors.
But I dream still,
of waking up on an August Monday.
Drinking coffee alone
feeling worth more than money.

Sitting in a green bright café,
rubbing my toes in anxiety.
Loving me past insecurity,
and still soothing all of me.

When have I not needed all of you?
I guess I’m learning to find that out.

This retrograde is always
sentimental radio silence.
Risings of the cresent moon,
shining off the suns old memory.
We have been reflections
of fires consequently burnt out,
long before we could grasp -
Orbs of celestial comprehension,
just falling short of brilliance.

Trailing rigid yellow satin robe,
you have hugged my curves the longest
and felt the way I leave the grounds running.

Traveling up and down my long lean legs,
and the lower United States too.
I am a mess they do not dare quantify.

Towering my misspoken 2AM un-sents,
the half licked envelopes of Sunday's unrest.
Over detailed lines of over stated emotions layed.

Taking a moment to mention the mourning
of my lost ability to create more than myself.
Maybe it is not what i've created, but when.

Tasking away to write more than i should know,
they tell me that I have never really known.
But what do they know?

Tenaciously giving life to words with low meaning,
streaming about the lines I weave whilst sneering.
I am not livid, but I have been alive.

Somewhere along the narrow path,
I dream of what I cannot have.
Lushes and blooms fill the gravels
whisking away at scared ankles.
Skies scream of consistent mellows,
drowing about my broken trebles.
The winds of change play their harps,
but I am singing past their darks.