She’s got a heart
as warm as winter
permafrost,
or a cold artic cave
were adventurers get lost.

She’s got a body
like a Venus fly trap
and when you get caught
you’ll never come back;

But she has a mind
like Eden’s garden
beautiful with
an outer shell
that has hardened,
a place where
dreams expand
and thoughts demand
grand exploration,

but no one enters
this paradise
that her last lovers
departed.

Leaving all this grieving green
to remain forever unseen.

I felt a little more than the drops on my back
And I slipped into the wishing well
embracing myself in my own skin on the bath tub floor
A ****** sack of twinkling wishes, I only was

I wish I was a child again
A child again I said
Taking a bubble bath in mid day-
I clogged the drain
Laid down
And waited
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting for the water to rise
To my mouth
my nose
My ears and eyes

water bubbles spiraled around
It was clear
White
....warm and bright
Like a Hollywood heaven
The water now reached my mouth
It had the taste of diluted tears
And I panted in the halcyon

Then....held my breath

but yet....
NOW I was farthest from being a child again

(Things aren't always what they seem,
and the same goes for people.)

It's a commonly held belief,
a theory by many supposed,
that inside every fat person
a thin person's enclosed.

And it's often been said before
(though that doesn't make it less truth)
that inside many a middle-aged man
beats the heart of a passionate youth.

A girl who appears just a butterfly
may deep down be a slave to her duty;
and one with the plainest exterior
may be blessed with a soul full of beauty.

But here is another hypothesis
I'd respectfully like to suggest
- if no-one has any objection -
that might take up its place with the rest.

If I'd courage to match my conviction
I might stand on the table and shout,
but it's this. . . . Inside every introvert
there's an extrovert trying to get out.

Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
Let me tell you a little story.
A little story, I shall tell you.
Keep it hush.
Yes, please do.
Down to memory lane, let’s run this cue.
Once was a little girl, with six dots on her face.
Questions asked, so let’s cut to the chase.
“What are the dots on your face?”
“Why do you have so many?”
“Are they freckles?”
No. I don’t know. And, no.

Back to the top, now here we go.

Black small things on my face.
They never seem to go away.
The only one with so much out of my sisters.
I can’t seem to tell if I’m different with all these whispers.
But my mother can.
She meant no harm.
However, harm was all that was felt.
I know she just wanted me to be the same.
It really was a shame.
“There was too many” she heard and said.
Which left my self-confidence to dread.
Pick in, pick out.
The dots would continue to fall down.
But they’re a part of me.
They would come back and sprout.

I believe I’m okay now.
Like was stated before,
My mother meant no harm.
And I still love her very much as usual.
I believe she was doing her best.
And her best was the best.