I love the idea of being held,
The thought of a man wrapping his arms around me,
Protecting me from the world,
The thought that I don't have to do this on my own,
But here I am, on my own.

Not that any of the guys I've dated have been like that,
I was a safe harbor for them,
Them less so for me,
I tried to take care of them,
But I never was a priority,
Never quite important enough to be put first.

All I want is to feel important,
Like I am all he needs,
Like I'm his entire universe,
Like I am all he sees,
And I know that's a lot to ask for,
Unrealistic, really.

Is it unrealistic to ask for flowers?
For no other reason than because he cares,
For him to open doors for me,
To run his fingers through my hair,
For him to kiss me in public,
'Cause I'm his and he's mine,
For him to tell me that he loves me,
And for me to see it in his eyes,
For him to remember little things about me,
Like the story behind my name,
Or for him to open up to me,
So that I can share his pain.

Is it unrealistic to want him to hold me?
And tell me that everything will be alright,
To have a safe harbor that's wholly and completely mine,
For him to be reliable,
My rock in a stormy sea,
For him to be strong,
For him to be strong for me.

Is it unrealistic to want to feel important,
All the time?
To feel safe, and loved, and unafraid,
To stop re-breaking this heart of mine.

All I want, when he wraps his arms around me,
Is to feel like I am home,
To feel like I can face anything,
Cause I'm not facing it alone.

I'm tired of having to be strong,
Tired of feeling so weak,
I need him to be strong,
To be strong for me,
Not all the time,
Just when I'm splintering.

I want him to wrap me in his arms,
And bury his face in my hair,
To hold me in his arms,
Like he needs me the way I need to be there.

I love the idea of being held.

Little one,
My precious one,
What now have you gone and wrought?
What is the fruit of the toils,
Of all the trouble you've sought?

Little one,
My dearest one,
You've gone and ran so far,
Won't you stop running and come here?
Come rest here in my arms.

If my life was a book,
What genre would it be?
I don't think there's a genre for lonely,
Not lonely from other people,
But lonely from myself,

But that's not me,
Not constantly,
There are just days the sun shines,
And the rays seem to miss my face,

It wouldn't be a tragedy,
Even though there are days I think it could be,
I don't believe that my life is tragic,
Tragic things just happen sometimes,

I wouldn't call it a comedy,
No matter how much I'd like for it to be,
I can't imagine how easy it would be,
To only have to laugh,

If this is supposed to be a romance,
The author is doing a **** poor job,
I can't think of anything less romantic,
Then the way that boys have treated me,

But I know life's not that simple,
To be pinned down by just one word,
It leaves the good things or the bad things,
One or the other gets left unheard,

Life is complex and stories,
So many things have happened to me,
There are so many things that I've been,
So many things I want to be,

If my life was book,
The genre wouldn't matter to me,
The important question is,
Would it be a book worth reading?

I don't know how to write this down,
What words are there for the longing
felt by a nineteen year old girl sitting on her bed
staring out the window at 1:30 in the morning
after finishing Pride and Prejudice for the umpteenth time?

What words can express the burning desire
for something she's never had,
nor is likely to have,
that grips her heart and freezes her brain
as she stares out the darkened window?

Part of me wants to make it poetry,
Silver beams,
Fall through the branches of the tree,
And wash over my face,
Like the tears my heart cannot conjure,
Strangely empty, it seems,
Is the sky,
Apart from those silver beams,
And my soul is still and quiet,
But anxious and impatient,
And for what I know not,

But even poetry is insufficient,
No pretty turn of phrase can encompass the simultaneous
swelling and crushing and binding and breaking and burning of my heart
as I stared at what little moonlight filtered through the leaves,
The house around me, deafeningly quiet,
Like a living tomb that entraps me,

What restlessness is this,
And what is it's end?

I danced in the living room,
There wasn't any music, just light,
And this sweet pervasive feeling,
That everything would be alright,

I had almost forgot what it felt like,
For everything to just be okay,
For the sun to rise and not see me cry,
And set the exact same way,

I danced in the living room,
And no was around to see,
The way I spun and twirled and danced,
Was completely and unabashedly me,

I almost forgot who that girl was,
Who calls my body home,
She's spent all this time aching to get out,
And I wish that I had known,

I danced in the living room,
Until I lost all that light,
But I held onto that feeling,
That everything would be alright.

Let me go gentle into that good night,
Old age has pushed me to the end of my day,
Softly, softly, into that golden light.

Wise men, at their end, know that dark is right,
I know my words have forked no lightning in the sky
But let me go gentle into that good night.

Goodly I, the last wave by, seeing how bright
My past little deeds have danced in the green bay,
Softly, softly, into that golden light.

Wildly I caught and sang the sun in its glorious flight,
And learned to rejoice, not grieve it on its way,
Let me go gentle into that good night.

I lay, near death, yet see with blinding sight
Young eyes that blaze like meteors and be gay,
Softly, softly, into that golden light.

And now, I sit, there on this sad height,
Sing, bless me now with your sweet tears, I pray.
Let me go gentle into that good night.
Softly, softly, into that golden light.

Once upon a time, I loved you,
But there was no happy end,
We parted painfully, as strangers,
Who claimed to once be friends,
But we both knew better,
We know that hearts,
They break, not bend,
And as for you and me,
There could be no happy end.