how to start to create something
hidden and subtle,
like a carefully crafted secret
only unintentional.

you were my secret.
well,
i guess you sometimes still are in my dreams
but I know better;
i know you're not mine.

now that the fantasy as faded,
distance to breath helps me see that you were a mirage,
something beautiful from far away
but up close it all dissipates
and i see that you were never there to begin with.

our time was short,
relationship almost nonexistent
and yet i could let myself fall so hard
i almost did.
i let you consume my thoughts
and drive my fantasies.

now i sit here scolding myself
scolding the overthinker
scolding the dreamer who dares to get wrapped up in things that only occurs to the quiet girl in rom-coms and meet-cute novels.

her head and her heart only cause her pain
waiting for a day that may never come,
but she keeps on dreaming
and waiting
and wishing
and loving

one day....
one day....

one day her heart may be released from its cage only to be shot down,
but one day someone may pick it up, take it home, cherish it, love it,
and she will no longer think of the missed moments and passerbys,
of the connections that electrified,
Cause there will be many that make those pale in comparison.

One day....

I'm a pitiful little dreamer I am;
Head always filled with notions,
Nose hidden between pages,
Feet following in the steps
of a hopeless romantic.

I'm starting to accept the fact
that I will never be loved
to the degree that I love.

I've grown cold to the disappointment
but I'm not quite numb,
Still an ache accompanies this feeling.

Overthinking and mistaking
normal events as purposeful intent
Trying to fill a seemingly impossible expectation;

Or perhaps it's just me,
I'm too much.
Good, but not quite enough.
Loved, but still somehow,
second hand.

And I cant help but wonder
If I'll forever wander,
smiling,
but forever accompanied
by a hidden sadness

The only thing
that loves me so dear,
is the emptiness
that is birthed
from the fear
of doubt,
That I could ever be loved
to a depth such as this,
To how I dream it to be.

Today I am angry.
I'm angry that the car is ***** from my sister's dog.
I'm angry that the cat threw up on my bed.
I'm angry that I wasted time taking the family dog to the groomers when it was the wrong day.
I'm angry that I'm tired
I'm angry to the point that I want to cry and grumble
I'm angry that these dogs are pooping and peeing in the house and making a mess and nothing feels clean.
I'm just so ******* ******* ******.
At everything.
I'm angry that the water in the shower won't heat up.
I'm angry that whoever showered last left puddles on the floor.
I'm angry the sink keeps clogging.
Heck,
I'm angry that I woke up.
I'm angry at everything around me.
But I'm mostly angry at myself for allowing my anger to show
For letting it control me...
But it still burns viciously with an unquenchable hunger.

I write of loneliness
A loveless life
I've never fallen so hard
Never had someone to call mine

But then I met a girl
Who loved too much
She has been loved by the good ones
And she has loved the bad ones
She's had her heart broken many times before

She says I'm lucky
but I don't know
Is it better to have loved then lost?
Or to have never loved at all?

I'm sure one day we will both find
but I wonder how it must feel
to have many over far too few
Cause it leaves me feeling unwanted

At least she knows
That she is beautiful
That she catches eyes
On the streets
So easily too
While I am left wondering

Even my friends shine
I dim next to them
I often think or wonder
When out on the town
If I'm even noticed amongst them
I dwarf in comparison

Take a moment
And look at her
The girl in the corner
In the back of the class
The quiet invisible one
Maybe not quite invisible, but no more visible then a **** in the grass.

You may not notice her
But she notices you
She watches everyone
She observes and learns

She is there but not
She's involved and she's not
You know OF her, but nothing about her

She laughs at the jokes
Answers the questions
And drifts through the halls.

You write in her yearbook
HAGS
Maybe say something nice cause that is what everyone does.
But at the end of the day she is as lonely as a music-less piano
And as quiet as the dead
And when she leaves, she will leave no ghost,
only a whisper
And that too will quickly be buried under the voices of many.