Sage Rhiannon Mar 12
I love her.

With her dark brunette hair,
always down over her shoulders in cascading waves,
Or tied up behind her head so that I can see her eyes.

Oh, her eyes.
Bright and alluring and sweet.
Alight with a smile that compares only to the one on her lips.

And her lips.
Always tilted up in a bashful smile.
And one side always goes higher than the other,
But I don't tell her because I think it's cute, and I don't want her to stop.

Someday she'll kiss me.
Because I'll never be brave enough to try myself.
And the lips I love so much will touch mine.

I love her

For her hair and her eyes and her lips and her mind,
Which is logical, but with a hint of romance and a vast imagination,
An artistic eye and a sweet, flustered girl just beside that.

She's perfect.

And I love her.

I love her so much.
Sage Rhiannon Mar 12
She left him.
For me?
But why?
She said she loved him,
She said it every day.
Did she mean it?
If she did, then why would she break it off?
If she didn’t…
What does it mean when she says it to me?
Why did she start in in the first place,
When after the fact she told me
She couldn’t love him.
She just couldn’t.
I don’t know.
It doesn’t make sense.
And so I just sit here in front of my computer,
asking my laptop whether or not she loves me.
Because I don’t want to have to ask her.
After all, that’s what he did.
And you know how that turned out.
Based on a real situation, but dramatized for extra poet-points
I bought a bunch of wooden soldiers.
I bought them from the store.
And now a hundred tiny soldiers
guard my bedroom door.

So if you're a scary monster-thing
who wants to go to war,
my bedroom door is open.
I'm not frightened anymore.
Oh boy, time for another poem.
What should I write about?
The meaning of life?
Some deep metaphor?

Scratch that.
I'm not deep.
Oh sure, I totally pretend to be,
But I'm not deep.

I like reading other people's deep thoughts
It's fun to think about stuff like that.
But I'm not deep.

I'm silly and bubbly and a little shallow.
Sometimes I'm sad, so I write about that,
Or sometimes I'm anxious, so I write about that,
But it's all skin-deep.
And I don't go deeper.

It almost feels like I've been leading everyone on.
Because a lot of the time,
I sound deep.
But I'm not deep.

I'm just a kid,
Barely starting high school,
Whose biggest concern in life is currently an overdue Chinese project.
Yeah... I'm not deep.

Sorry about that, everybody!
I know I try to sound deep,
But really.
I'm not deep.

The word "deep" has now lost all meaning to me, I've written it so many times... 0-0
I remember the first time someone explained to me what the word gay meant.
We were in middle school
Playing on the swing set behind Stoy Elementary
"He’s so gay," she said
Bitter disgust poured out of her mouth with every syllable
I could not think as to why being happy could be such a horrible thing
And so I asked
My exact words being
“Whats so wrong with being happy?”
Now both my friends looked at me weird
“Don’t you know what gay means?”
“Doesn’t it mean to be happy?”
“You’re such a little kid, gay does not mean happy. Gay is a boy who likes another boy”
I stood there wondering why it mattered so much that a boy liked another boy;
why it was such a distasteful thing.
And why it meant gay couldn’t still mean happy.
"What is your name?"

"What do you mean?

Once, I was given a name,
By someone very dear to me,
But is that the name
That belongs to me?

I have names that I've chosen
Many names, made for strangers to see
But are any of those the name
That belongs to me?

I have shorthand names too,
Gifted affectionately,
But are those the names
That belong to me?

I have names that I share
'Poet,' 'Daughter,' 'Artist,' 'She.'
Could these be the names
That belong to me?"

I just asked for your name."

"You tell me."
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