I want to be Someone
So unique
So special
That no matter who I meet
I leave an impression
Either on their heart
Or mind
I want to be someone
That changes another's life
Whether small or big
Someone that another
Cannot easily forget
Someone that they replay
Days after we've met
Someone that another
Can't believe exists
Because my beauty
On the inside
Rivals the one portrayed
On the outside
I want to be someone
That another wonders
How I could be
The way that I am
I want to be someone
That another gets lost
In my poetic aura
My beautiful mind
My raw honesty
My deep laughter
And all-consuming smiles
I want to be someone
That isn't cliche
That's original
And incomparable
Because there has never
Been anyone like me
Before

ghost-like, the song of syrinx,
seven hollow reeds plucked
to make a flute, a star-wish
where the dark waters ride,
(the horned god laughs and plays),

shrunk to a dusk, the river mute,
her voice trickles over stone
and leaf, branches reflected, pools and
caves where otters breathe, where
drinks the evening dew -

her voice fades like a star as pan
awakes, his pipe brushes her lips,
sings of the infinity of night of
a moon white-layered like stone,
dancing like a woodland breeze.

While talking to Moon i asked "How can she sleep peacefully after hurting me so badly?"

"Because you wished for her happiness."
Moon replied

The sea whistles gently eastwards
right to the rocks of a promise
the in-between without a compromise
nor reasons of a just triumph

That sunset was so beautiful
with an glowing amber sheen
lowly reflected upon the waters
to the dense of the drowning pebbles

I stretched my arms and you was cold
distanced in treason confrontations
no permission to treasure my disposition
nor an intermission to give a position

I shall **** you, like I killed all the darlings
those that brought a fiery passion
and their heat transpired to a lustful tension
May the fiery seas draw to your conclusion

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.