Your eyes as bright as the moon in early December,
Your lips, pink as the roses in spring,
Your smile delightful and beautiful,
Your voice like music to my ears,
Your laughter a sweet and soft melody that makes me feel alive,
Your presence like the breeze that sweeps me off my feet,
Although perfection is a myth, I believed in it the moment I met you.
For never in all my years on this planet have I come across a person so perfect.
A mixture of beauty, brains, talent and character.
No man's presence has such effect on me,
No man's presence leaves me breathless.
It feels like an illusion, a dream.
Well, maybe that is all it truly is.

Sometimes I sit by myself and wonder
I wonder if that man is real
If the perfect novel man is real.
The man with bright eyes.
The man with the ideal smile.
The man with a heart of gold.
The man who loves you for you.
The man who loves you even against all odds.
The man who is willing to give his life to protect you.
The man who would do anything to make you smile.
The man who is willing to give you the world.
The perfect novel man.

I stare into the mirror, and I wonder,
'Who is the girl in the mirror?'
For this is not the girl who I used to know,
who moved so freely, who smiled and laughed and loved,
this is not the beautiful girl I used to know,
why has she been replaced with this girl,
this girl with no feelings,
this girl who cannot love or laugh or smile,
this girl with the world on her shoulders.
What has taken over the body of that peaceful girl, that free spirit,
and why has she been replaced with something so dark and secretive something so hollow and burdened,
Although she looks the same as her it is not her,
but it is her,
only a different version,
a version I do not recognize or understand.
Is this what growing feels like?
is growth not supposed to feel good,
does growth separate one from the world,
does growth make a person hatful,
does growth destroy one's heart,
does growth make one lose themself.
For it is the same girl and at the same time it is not her,
it is the same girl, but she is detached,
she holds the ropes of her sanity as the slip from her hands,
it is the same girl, but she is griped by fear and sorrow,
it is the same girl, but she no longer walks she floats through like a soul that has no body detached from the world and it's affairs.