I kept a list of things that you dread and like
Colored the first black, the other white.

Back then, I only know one to cite
Now, it has a ninety-nine items in plain sight.

Wrote the 100th note after the talk yesterday
My name is finally on it but the color is gray.

When you don't like yourself
You tend to dislike everything connected to you

New things seems to be more attractive
When you learn to love yourself

Then the same old love
Starts looking new
Starts looking nice

Thank you
For teaching me
How to love myself

I told you I like you, and I spill those sky blue tears.
Years later...
You fall to me and I'm into somebody else.

you call me
i was caught by surprise
you need me
i was caught by my feelings
you want me
i was hugged by hopefulness
please make it true
please don't make me blue
just turn me into you
into you
into you
you
oh you
xo

I came upon the page and thought to write of who I am and who I was.
I thought it best to explain the things that people saw when they looked my way.
How I came to be what I see in my own reflection.
I gave benefit of doubt that they would or could then have some understanding. Perhaps naivety was my flaw?
The more I wrote the fewer looked.
Is it simply me or the openness that makes it so?
Is it what they see or the not wanting to really know?
Could it be that honesty is a frightening thing?
Am I better off to keep secrets and carry a facade?
Would then perhaps more be interested in who I am?
Would they then have the time to stop a while?
Or is it simply having seen they see no value?
And yet it is that I still need to fill the page...
and to hope someone will see me and stop a while.