I JUST ALWAYS FELT SO*   *small   **COMPARED TO YOU

Talking to you answered some questions
But left more unanswered
Do you still read my poems?
I write to you
Hoping you would know that there is so much confusion
That I am not just leading you to believe that I am someone who does this sort of thing often
You're where it all started
I can't just let go
It's been so hard for so very long
To try not to look at you
And try to say to myself that you don't think of me even if I think of you
To try to believe that maybe it is just me who feels like this
But when you told me you loved me, something was there
Something that was missing was half filled
Not the whole way completed because all I find from you are empty promises
Nothing felt real
Because of the way you talked to me after you said it
I wanted you to tell me nice things you used to tell me
That's what I wanted when you asked
But I couldn't say it because it wouldn't be fair
I would have wanted too much
The complete love of two people
And he knows all of this, he knows about how I feel
That's why I feel guilty and bad for all of this
But he knows I will always have feelings for you
It's something about the first love that you have
It's just so confusing when you talk to me
If you missed me, missed us, you didn't talk to me like you loved me
It was  like I was some tattoo that meant something, and now you regret getting, but it won't go away
And whenever I see you, you just look at anything other than me
Because I think you're afraid I can see right through you
Well, I'm looking at you, knowing that you can see straight through me
I'm tired of putting up layers and disguises to hide how I feel
And I'd like to believe that you still love me too
That you are even reading this
But I don't know anymore

I watched God this morning.
I observed all He did.
I sat as the fog lifted.
The great sky that stretch far --
from the rocky beach 'til
my head could stretch back no longer --
was now broken.
One mirror with a single crack
right across the middle.
One barren strip of land --
a single tree.
I watched God
as He lifted away the fog
to reveal the beauty in imperfection.

Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits
gathered together
and even though the threat of
torrential downpour looms over us,
the drizzle doesn't seem to matter.
We sing and dance,
chant poetry as if
it's a religious hymn.
This small voice in me --
withered and stripped down --
is no longer so.
With the voice of my army
we can crumble the mountains
that stand in our way,
part the oceans
that keep us apart.
Here we are,
the mighty army of misfits,
and we will not leave
without a fight.

You have to do more than believe
if you want to change the world.
Prayers and shooting stars
just won't cut it anymore.
Get off your knees and
go serve the god you're so devout to.
It's time
                                                 to march,
                                                 to protest,
                                                  to cry out into empty winds
because it's better to be heard
than to die silent.

I wanted to tell you that
this cut on my leg
wasn't a shaving accident.
That the beads of rubies
weren't from clumsy fingers,
but from strong trembling hands.
I thought I'd tell you that
I enjoyed the way it felt,
the idea that I was alive --
that string of scarlet pearls
was proof that I had a heart,
that it still beat --
no matter how faint.
I wanted to wear the red jewels
around my neck
as some sort of prize.
No,
as some kind of evidence
that I
          was
                 not
                       hollow --
                 I'm
         still
here.
Try to wipe them away,
but they only become
one of Van Gogh's strokes --
beautiful.
meaningful.
I am alive.