You talk of the future,
One of picketed fence dreams
With little ones running
Giggling
To olden days
Wooden rocking chairs
And paired glasses
of dentures.

And yet, you refuse to grow up.

You listen to the spills
Of a woman,
Mentally further
In her years
Pour her heart
Mop up her insecurities
Dripping with love

And yet, such trivial matters are the topic of discussion.

Wake up,
You arrogant, pretentious
Peter Pan.
Can you simply
Smell the roses
Of responsibility
Drink from fountains
Of dignity,
Feel the air of change
Brushing through coiled,
Unkempt hair locks?

And yet, you still ignore all the signs.

Break the
Looking glass
Where you fall into
A sense of dependency
Stand tall
Like trees packed with
Experience.
Wisdom.
The answers lie
Deep in
The core of all
Curiosities:
Research.

And yet, you remain still, shocked that such words could slip through my tongue.

And yet you find me ******
And yet you find me childish over
Petty
Playful
Concealed matters to shield you from the
Dragon’s breath
For you dear Pan,
Would be smoldered in its flames.

And yet, you feel like Neverland’s missing member,
So painfully
Ripped
From your true home.
Cursed
To live out your days
As an adult.
Pulled away from the
Warm blanket
That mommy
And daddy so carefully
Have woven for you
To remain in.

Poor, poor Peter Pan,
The alarm clock
Has been ringing
For some time.

And yet, there no longer holds a “snooze” button.

I dream of freedom,
surrounded by
fresh air
and romance.
A place unlike any other,
one where the evils
of this world:
stress
worry
financial ruin
is but a memory
washed away.

I long for nights
not plagued by
dreams of failure,
ones that seem so real
I question if I'd ever wake up.

I crave the will to breathe
without wonder of what
I need to sacrifice to
simply
survive
next week.

I wish to remain a grown woman,
with the responsibility,
care-free, yet
stability of a
young child.
I wish to soar among the clouds
without worry
of smashing
amongst the pavement.

this,
however
is my conflict.
I can almost
touch the wisps
of the sky,
yet here I remain
on the ground.
the gravity,
slowly pulling me further
from them.
so big,
pure white,
as though drained
of darkness
and negativity.

please,
if nothing more,
let me hold on just a moment
longer
so that I may join them.

see what I see,
walk in my shoes.
go down the paths I do
when the road winds
in forever opposite
directions.

feel what I feel,
embrace the earth,
the winds,
the simple touch
of water upon
my skin.
let the feelings I feel,
pain,
restriction,
joy,
pleasure,
and despair.
let them sink beneath
the skin,
into the chill
of my veins
the individual
cells connecting the tip
of my fingers
to your very touch.

go back to the second line
of the first verse:
walk
in
my
shoes.
how can you not see
the flowers
ceasing to exist
without the help of the
lowly bumblebee?
how can my heart
not flutter without your
existent touch?

but you don't see what I see,
you're not feeling what I'm feeling,
you say you care about the bumblebee
when its your flowers in the garden.
so my flowers sit,
alone,
wilted and waterless
in an unattended garden.
with me in the middle,
kneeled down,
the autumn chill
blowing us all away.

order.
I crave order,
the need to straighten
the crooked paintings on the walls
the urge to going for a walk
breathing in the air
of today,
looking back from the mistakes
the wrong turns
the wrong words of yesterday
and simply exist.

i want life,
one that is messy
but can be vacuumed away
with conversations and watching sitcoms
just to see our envelopes of stress
the complications of work life
unfold behind locked doors and dimmed
lights.

I want an "us."
A genuine "us,"
where every smile is authentic
not just a cover for words that
could have been left unsaid
where tears have not been blotted away
with an expensive concealer
and cheap wine.
I want people to look, not stare.
I don't want them to be "us"
but to look at themselves and
see the difference.

self-love,
the kind where
you see, in real time
not locked on a social media
screen.
the one where waking up
is an embrace of gratefulness
and not a separation
from woman and bed.
the one where my feelings,
my intense emotions
can be harnessed into
fitness centers
and highly caffeinated teas.

I imagine,
in the dead of night
in my dreams
or simply on a walk home
from work... you.
I imagine how we blossom from this
how we sit quietly in a lit room
hair tousled
glasses firmly against my nose
as we discuss our monthly budget,
what we did at work today
watch our comfort show
as the time passes
before we sleep.
I imagine,
every day
something as simple
as the air we breathe
in a life we choose,
together.

hold me.
the way you do a teddy bear,
fill my eyes with childlike
wonder
the purest content
without explanation.
squeeze me,
as you look into my eyes
and say
but three words:
"i love you"

keep me.
the way you do a teddy bear,
put me on the highest shelf
admire the way
buttons simply exist
on my shirt.
go on about your day
thinking of me
with the intent
of wanting our eyes
to meet
yet again.

I cannot
make the clouds push away the rain.
I am not responsible for the sun that shines
afterwards.
I am human,
I do not command the tides and winds
to bring fresh flowers in spring.

I cannot
draw the arrows towards the lovers
nor will I intervene in their paths.
I will not push the heavens together
the way the myths once did before.
I should not be able to feel disdain
as easily as I am to breathe.

I cannot,
no,
I will not
force you to love me.
I am not able
to lock my heart
in a display case
and open it
when convenient.

what I am,
dear reader
and what I can be
is a lover.
I can be a wife.
I can be what you desire
even if the picture
is not perfectly mirrored.

what I will be,
dear reader
is patient.
still.
like the cascades
of color
in Renaissance paintings.

I am a good person,
a loving woman
and a patient one.

though the thought
the mere mention
of putting what I want
and what you want
in a jar,
scrambled together
bobbing for the apples
of compromise
makes me feel cold
and incapable of
understanding,
I can do it,
dear reader.

so I draw myself back,
to the "I cannot"
one last time
and say in one
breath:
"I cannot get lost in myself."

better lock your doors
past the vibrated floors
of an argument gone wrong in bed
journey into the world
of the introverted bird
for some things are better left
unsaid.

unleashing your anger
piled into relationship danger
for not slipping the lock and key
best to lock it up tight
for things unsaid just might
be better to swallow down
in liquor and internal winery.

partake in these writings
where irritation comes biting
like fire ants in the summer breeze
"better left unsaid" flows with ease
another glass til it becomes more exciting.

just like that you're officially sunk
reserved, considerate and possibly drunk
probably in that same old bed
thinking of which book is unread,
still pondering the possibility
that there's a rule so silly
as
"better left unsaid."