"she's not like other girls"

she'll probably give you **** when you say that to her
she's not an exception
she believes in every girl's beauty

she believes in the splendor of the world
her eyes sparkle with wonder
her feet itch to wander
her heart soars for all that is beautiful

but she also believes in all the ugliness of the world
her eyes shut with horror
her feet refuse to stand up
her heart breaks for the sake of humanity

she will not comply to your standards
because she'll sometimes be inadequate
or because defiance will appeal to her more

she does things in her own quirk and pace

she'll heat water and make coffee
then put in the fridge to let it cool
she'll wait for the weekend just to
waste her time in bed
she'll throw a party when she reach
a certain age just because
she thinks it's a good number
she'll be distant for a couple of days
she'll come back eventually
she'll just wander through her solitude

she's pretty
but not that pretty

or so she thinks

she wears a crop top but then gets
bothered whenever a bit of skin is exposed
she swears to only wear neutral clothes
but lets her mother buy her some color
she admires other people's body but
is still in the process of loving her own

she pours water to make the glass full
she sips just enough to make it half empty
maybe that's why her lips are chapped

she's different just like everyone else
she's no chosen one
she is not destined to save the world or anyone
except maybe herself
she's not a special snowflake
though sometimes
she think she is

she is not an exception
she is not an
she is not
she is

she

If all good love poems
rest on metaphors
Then I'll write with one
that you could've searched
the world three times over for
and never found before

like the last puppy
lying on its on back
in front of a convenience store
the one that was unaccounted for

that little crease on the windshield
the one your wipers could never reach
or that annoying kid with ADD
the one your teacher could never teach
(me)

time is at once infinite and definite
life is short, yet is the longest thing we'll ever do
why must we lust for forever
when we know a dinner for two at 2 would do

Prince and Princess charming aren't walking through that door
which makes me question what we believe in happily ever after for
and I won't become a cynic
and if only a writer that could never write is deemed a critic
then i'll drop my pen
and drink all the ink in it

love is a four letter bubble
what looks to be
a meandering ascent into nothingness to those outside
but is a self sustaining world to those who inhabit it

what good is an art
if one can not master it

face it
a critic's a poet and a writer
that could never quit