Keeping my time full,
and my heart fuller.
Grass greener, taste sweeter.
Summer sambas and
shining webs of old pleasures.
I have taken strangers dancing,
and met the suns eternal wave.
Taking on a new me -
high risk, high reward,
and everything to gain.

A single silver diamond
hangs from my neck,
as a reminder that I have been
building myself to last.

I have built me from nothing,
but bold words and raw emotions,
laid out like cards I keep getting dealt.

I have been mistakenly honest,
perfectly wrong, and dreadfully me.
All to benefit the terrible good
you keep on feeding me.

Succumbing to willful devotions,
heavenly honours, and beautiful
crystals.
I have loved me far longer, and
far stronger.
Than I could ever love you
my green emerald.

At twelve I am the storm.
The three second delay
between thunder and lightening -
never really knowing which is closer.

At one I am the moon.
Witness to slow decaying stars
already laid to rest -
shining still and silently.

At two I am the winds.
Hallowing grey movements
sliding between each other -
never going the right direction.

At three I am the trees.
Dancing petals of soft memory,
delicate to gravel, food for though -
and home to lonely sleeping crows.

At four I am the heat.
Sticking to skins and foreheads,
rising above the sidewalks -
causing mirages to those too far.

At five I am the sun.
Giving light for the moons glow,
giving food for the trees growth,
warming up the earth - for you?

I’m not the girl you kiss on a New Years Eve.

I’m not the girl next door, just across the street.

I’m not the girl who pretends that they think you’re funny.

I’m not the girl that runs or pretends that they’re neat.

I’m not the girl that tells you what you’re suppose to say.

I’m not the girl that knows that their hot, okay?

I’m not the girl that thinks they’re good at your sport.

I’m not the girl that pretends that you’re only a joke.

I’m not the girl to say yes just because of how you’re feeling.

I’m not the girl who conceals everything they’re really meaning.

I’m not the girl who sits low when you raise your voice.

I’m not the girl who thinks that they have no choice.

I’m not the girl who’s funny, docile, and sweet.

I’m not the girl that collects pointless expensive jewelry.

I’m not the girl who lives off their parents dime.

I’m not the girl to tell you how to live your life.

I’m not the girl to leave you if you had no money.

I’m not the girl to eat kale salads with hungry.

I’m not the girl to hold your past like a knife to the back.

I’m not the girl that doesn’t know what kind of power she has.

I’m not the girl to reveal all the tricks up her sleeves.

Actually, here’s the trick...

I’m not the girl.

I’m the beast.

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.