I like you.
like a whole bunch.
I like the way your fingers tap incessantly and the way your voice carries leagues across the blacktop and the way your lips curl up in that goofy smile.
but your heart is not mine and I don't need it I just want your hand to hold mine.
I just want to be yours.

Not so long ago
In a land closer than it seems
There lived a silly little girl
With a pocketful of dreams

She was as hated as was loved
It didn't matter what she'd done
But the one thing that she knew
Was that she hurt everyone

Too fat and too ugly
Too judgmental and a fool
She could never just be perfect
And society was cruel

It carried on for years
And nobody could decide
Whether this silly little girl
Should get to live or die

So the leader told his people
That something must be done
And the poor thing should be dealt with
So it couldn't hurt anyone

At first there was denial
But the number quickly bloated
Soon even the voice of mother
Left the situation quite outvoted

But when asked ''who would do it?''
As the people shouted blame
Not a single one would volunteer
And hung their heads in shame

A tiny voice right from the back
Suppressed by a nation's shouts
Announced that she could do it
No longer harbouring any doubts

Every single citizen watched
As a blade was drawn with care
The girl aligned it to the heart
To breathe she didn't dare

Instantly her dull eyes closed
A single push was done
Hushed whispers silenced throughout the land
Watching her smiling tear drops run

When mother found her in the morn
Dried tears still on her face
She knew with greatest certainty
She was not in a better place

How hopeless she was lying there
With blood on the bedroom floor
The only thing to take comfort in
They couldn't hurt her anymore

Mother watched the coffin
Now the girl was quite stone dead
Such a pity, society sighed
That the land was within her head.

Take heed of this done story
For the many who ruin themselves
Though words might seem so innocent
Our worst critics are ourselves

In Welsh
The word "Hiraeth" means
A homesickness for a home
To which you cannot return.
A home which maybe never was.
The nostalgia,
The yearning,
The grief for the lost places of your past.

In Russian
The word "Toska" means
A dull ache of the soul.
A longing with nothing to long for.
A sick pining.
A vague restlessness.

In Yaghan
The word "Mamihlapinatapai" means
A look shared by two people,
Each wishing that the other will
Offer something that they both desire
But are unwilling to suggest or offer themselves.

You say that you love my words
And wonder why I have such a passion for them.
It's simple, really.
I'm merely trying to put a name
To everything you inspire me to feel.

FROM the time of the early radishes
To the time of the standing corn
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes.
  
There are laws in the village against weeds.
The law says a **** is wrong and shall be killed.
The weeds say life is a white and lovely thing
And the weeds come on and on in irrepressible regiments.
Sleepy Henry Hackerman hoes; and the village law uttering a ban on weeds is unchangeable law.