The quintessence of my loneliness can be summed up in the number of romantic comedies and books of poetry I own.

I've been trying to look at life through a stained glass window, but so far it's just blinding my vision.

The pottery scattered on my kitchen floor is more like bits of my heart
and less like art.

People have been spending their lives leaving footprints laced in my mind, but every time I turn my head trying to find some form of beauty in all of this, no one seems to notice I'm not looking.

I grew up with people insisting everyone would want to be my best friend because I'm kind and I would have so many boy problems because I'm pretty,
but so far I can count encounters like that on my left hand.

And I've been spending my whole life trying to find someone who thinks I'm worth understanding, but so far every time I think words aren't needed, when I finally do speak
there's no one there.
Every time I think the poetry lies not in words but in eyes, I sound
Too sad
Too mad
Too happy
I think too much
I talk too much
I don't talk enough
I need more flavor
I need less flavor
Too poised
Too craze
Am I the only one who's tired of being too much or not being enough?

What ever happened to being just right?

In a world tipped, on a scale that's out of proportion anyway I think
there's too much room for heartache and not enough room to learn how to spell it.
Too many mountain peaks,
and not enough tools to get there.
Too many girls taught how to be lonely,
and not enough lessons on how not to be afraid of the dark.

So from here on out I won't be saying "I'm sorry"
for trying to understand how the moon slips into the pavement like it's finally found something worth resting in.
From here on out any time I turn my head trying to find beauty's final resting place,
I promise
I won't be looking back.