It was a dance, a game, that I didn't know.

Were we swirling and spinning and pressing close,

Making hushed praises and whispering promises?

Were we playing chess or cards or even checkers, in silent bemusement?

Perhaps we weren't singing or swaying or moving pieces upon boards, crying 'checkmate!' as soon as we were able

Maybe it was something completely different

Were there no musical tunes?

Pawns upon boards?

If that isn't what we're doing then...

How do we move forwards?

Will we be stuck here, butting heads, staring, longing for something more

Something indescribable

All our lives?

We spin and swirl,

Dance and twirl,

And yet

Though beautiful and enchanting it may be

We are just puppets

On strings

I can see a word

Or phrase

And conjure up hundreds of stories

Images

And yet

I can't find the words

To place these same images

Into other's heads

Empathetic

Able to fit any mold

I'm told that that's not a good thing

Too empathetic

Just seeing someone in pain will put me in pain

These poems are long

Really long

Because I pour out my heart

And can switch topics in the middle

Without realizing

It's like a diary

That I share

But diaries aren't meant to be shared

Diaries keep secrets

Not to be told

Or for anyone to know

But maybe that's wrong with me

I trust too much too easily

It hurts, sometimes

I write how I would speak it

It's caused odd poems and repeated words

Most definitely repeated words

But its it's okay

It's okay because it's my style

It's my words that

I get to express

Which makes it okay

Right?