I wish I could express my emotions like you can;
I wish I could show someone I really am me.
But I don't know if I can be so personal --
Maybe I'm afraid to be.

It's easy to be a guitarist,
Because I can form songs with my bare hands.
But could I really be a poet?
Could I really use my words to show you who I am?

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          comparing
                    my poetry
                              to yours
Because your words have meaning

And I don't know what mine are for.


You know, it's possible I'm in love with being in love.
It's possible that I'm not even there.
Because I switch too fast from being so romantic,
To being someone who just doesn't care.

I think the difference is you're not afraid to be broken,
But I am, so I put walls up around myself.
I've only played the game getting fallen for.
I couldn't bear to be the one who fell.

But I can't spend the rest of my life
          hurting
                    everyone
                              else
Maybe it's time to change the way I play

And become the one who fell.

To become one with all, one must lose
their ****, their wallet, their mind, their car keys
you must lose your sense of time and space so that it all becomes a dream
and you can't decipher up from left or hot from green
and you just sit
(or fall?)
until you fail and wail and bump against the grind stone 'til your skin errodes,
revealing muscle, which is weak when peeled away, to reveal
bone,  ground into flour for the cupcakes and bread et al.
Let their be fights, and strife
and lice and barium
because to accept all
you must love the disgusting, the heinous, and is that  what you want?
To accept all means to accept close mindedness, and chosen blindedness,
evils, weevils, steel easels,
do you really want that?
Yes.
Yes you do, if you want to become one with all.
I just want to forget the nulls and nuisances and sleep in peace and riot.

I am not ferociously aggressive, but there are activities that I will not can not partake in.
I will not be a grammar-phile in poetry, for sometimes, a sentence just begs to end in a preposistion. Of.
I won't be the surrogate to the emotions you wish you had for me;
if you truly felt them, you would proudly show off the pregnancy bump, endure hours of painful labor and breastfeed those feelings until the inappropriate age of 2.
I refuse to lower my standards and waste any amount of any time with any man who can't appreciate:
sure, all men are created equally,
but over time they can warp,  change into slight congruence, and then become foreign, rude, selfish.
(Not all, ofcourse, but some, and that sum is one not worth crying or trying for).
I will never lead a boy into thinking he has my thoughts or affection
for such a crime is critically and clinically cruel
and I do not have the scalpel or shears to perform such inhumane procedures and experiments.
I do not believe I will ever have total peace, because I do not think such silliness is worth truly worrying about.
I think I could do almost anything else, like spit poison or turn myself into an inside-out person,
or maybe even solve a math dilemma
but staying stable for too long would make my molecules freeze like zero degrees Kelvin,
and I would turn into paradoxical nothingness.