There are flowers in my hair,
and a smile on his face.
Daisies are my favorites,
and he can't be replaced.

I lost my place the other day,
reading a book, and forgetting my name.
Then I remembered things were changing,
and I wanted to fall away.

I held his hand Sunday morning,
while he was half asleep, and,
I drowned my thoughts in iced coffee.

I felt the dew on my finger tips,
and the warmth floating in the air.
Daisies were growing around me,
and there was a smile on my face.

I held his locket in my palm,
and pulled petals off of flowers.
He loves me,
he loves me not.

I have never written a love song,
but, what if I did?
Would it  be a soft low melody?
Or a pop-like tune with a static key?

Would the lyrics flow, or make no sense?
Would I mention his name?
                                                -Please tell me it wouldn't be passed tense.

I think I'd make a note of, when or how,
we met.
Perhaps I'd even bring about what you said,
as if I could forget.

Now maybe if I wrote a love song,
it'd be something sweet and true.
But I highly doubt it,
it's something I couldn't do.

I don't mean to dwell on the opposite;
I bet love is as great as they say.
But I had always supposed that,
love was just not for me, and,
I'd be forced another way.

But perhaps a little spring of sudden thought
can be a revelation,
or perhaps a push to my step.

I never cared for rain nor wind,
but now these are my favorite things.
How could that be true?
I think I still hate the rain.

If I wrote a love song,
it'd probably be a farce.
I'd probably make up every line,
and make it sound so pretty.

But the truth is,
it's not pretty.
And it's not even so great.
To have this feeling that I hate.

So maybe I'll write a love song,
about not wanting to write that love song.
It might seem absurd, but it will be true.
I didn't want to write a long song about you.

I've stayed up passed my bedtime
writing words that don't make sense,
then I wrote again until my words fell flat,
tell me now, am I a writer yet?

I bled words onto paper,
and made rhymes from old news print,
then I lost my train of thought til 4am.
Tell me, anyone, am I a writer yet?

I wrote poems on the ferry,
for the boy who played guitar,
About a girl with too wide eyes,
and her lips all red like cherries.
Someone tell  me, am I a writer yet?

I read the words sewn to my chest,
and marked all my feelings in henna,
collected my thoughts like a novel,
and hummed every word to a beat.
It'd be a shame to say I wasn't a writer yet.

I read novels and sonnets,
from Shakespeare and Poe,
hoping that something would show me the road.
Tell me, please, am I a writer yet?

There is cursive on my forearm,
a few pretty little words.
A few tearful eyes at the sight of my words,
and a smile to accompany them too.

Perhaps I can answer for myself now,
and my words might shine a little brighter.
It was silly for me to ever doubt;
I always knew I'd be a writer.