Do any of y'all really know me?
Can you see who I am from my poetry?
If your answer is yes, you're wrong
Even I don't know where I belong
When people ask who I am
I say I'm 26, a mother, a poet,
I basically just read my bio
But you've all read that too
Does that mean you really know?
A friend told me lately
To stop being so humble about my poetry
I don't like to come off sounding cocky
He says I'm **** good at what I do
But not every poem is about you
Not every word is always true
Sometimes, they're just words written in ink
To give you an idea, to really make you think....  
But my poetry doesn't define me
Doesn't show you who I am inside
Sure, you've read about my heartaches
And all the nights I've cried
But nothing I write,
Can show you the inner workings of my mind
So, please don't think you really know me
Based solely on all my posted poetry
Because, to be honest, I'm not even sure who I am
And I know me, better than all of you
But please continue to read and comment
Because I'd love to know the truth
About what you all really think of me
Honestly, y'all have really helped me through

why does that something
that holds a meaning
so deep and special
to me

seems so ordinary
and common
in comparison
to all those
beautiful and profound

love stories
and sonnets
and songs
out there?

are we all
the same?

L** ost out in the real world
up, down, left, right?
its all backwards
which way to go?

O ne way.
The other less traveled
or the well beaten path?
how to choose?

S igns? supposed to
follow the signs?
if i don't care,
how will i see them?

T ear down the walls,
break away.
become something else
ENTIRELY

write me a story that begins with
the light blue sheets that you lay your muscled body upon,
let it travel to the first thought in your head
and the taste of your spearmint toothpaste,
let it tell me about your blueberry pancakes or sugary cereal
and the breeze off of the lake that tickles your shaggy blonde hair,
let it show me the worry lines in your forehead
and the troubles with your father,
let it tell me of the girl that made you laugh
with her freckled nose that reminded you of me,
let it tell me of your struggles and your pleasures and your pain,
let it tell me about the sun that burns your skin
the world that you see through your blue green eyes
the liquor that kisses your lips,
let it tell me of your heart and your mind and all of the everything
that exists in your being
write me this story so that i may be jealous of your sheets and your father     and the sun and blueberry pancakes,
for they are graced with the wildness of your presence
in the story of your life

I am in love with you in the way that
you are my insomnia at 4 in the morning,
the one keeping me awake because my
body doesn't remember how to fall asleep without
yours quietly curled around it,
and my brain doesn't understand
why I irrevocably hate you,
or how I can hate and love one person
so much it makes my stomach hurt,
every moment I'm not with you I think
that the distance might **** me
because the sleepless nights and empty beds
breeding incomprehensible hatred
are just because I am
so
*******
in love with you.