You know the type.
She's probably called something like
Isabella. Rosalie. Ginevra.
and you find her in the sort of novel where
she's outdone by someone called something like
Jane. Agnes. Lucy.
She's remembered in criticism as
Trivial. Silly. Foolish.
She's defined as Shallow. Vain. False gold.
She's analysed as the mirror, the contrast or the foil
and you're supposed to vaguely dislike her.
She'll reaffirm to the reader that the heroine,
whether she be plain or beautiful, is always, in the end,
Rational. Independent. Brave.
She reaffirms the heroine as someone who
learns and grows
while the silly girl is left looking at herself in the mirror.
The thing is sometimes I feel more like the silly girl,
the girl who needs a hand, the girl who reads books
and wants to believe the stories.
Sometimes, I'm looking in the mirror,
chest deep in my own trivial, silly little worries,
looking at the puddles not the lake, and I know.
I know I'd be one of the silly girls,
not the heroine, out there, just surviving.
I'd be one of those silly girls and I hate it - and yet
- what's so wrong with the silly girls?
What's so wrong with the girls who love themselves,
or love the wrong people or love their clothes?
What's wrong with the girls who are
brave but not rational,
independent but trivial,
selfish but practical?
What's wrong with those girls,
because I always find myself preferring
the Ginevras and the Isabellas anyway.
You must love roses,
Or they must love you,
As they open when you walk by.
Yes, I am sure you do.
Because your smile is the sun
That shines and brightens the garden
Filling their petals with life,
You must love roses.
And, even if you don’t,
I am sure they do love you.
It's in the little blue house
All the way in its peak
Is where you'll find my soul melting
Dying for the one up there.
It's in the big blue sky
In its rainbow and clouds
That's where you'll find his lovely eyes
Waiting for mine to spot his.
being a poet in love
means writing down
every single emotion
you’ve ever felt on to paper
it means turning simple things
about a person into
deep details that only
you would notice
such as when the one you
love simply smiles at you
that could turn into
“his mouth turned upward into
a small smile upon his cheeks
making my stomach erupt
into tiny butterflies”
it means writing every single
interaction you’ve had with that
person and turning it into something
poetic and beautiful even if it’s as
simple as a smile
it means letting your heart
do the writing for you as the
emotions pour out of your mind
but it also means heartbreak
lots and lots of heartbreak
having your heartbroken
even helps poets write about
being in love
it’s hard being a poet in love
because we can never find
someone who truly wants
to be written about