To a passer-by
Whose eyes are as blue as the sky
whose grief is maddened, whose cries are silenced
but whose joys are quenching;
The hiding sun is on your lips
As beguiling as the sky-lark's song:
thy movement left me fainting and murmuring all along!
That roaring sea of blueness - glistening in the wintry throng;
endless and limitless in its own fieriness, which thy gracefully bestowed upon me!
And the bronze of thy hair, thy smooth, cloudless hair!
How unsorted this gleefulness is, upon harking to thy voices!
Yet shadowed by the fitful trees,
Murky is their grin, greedy is their rind
Oh then how I had to leave thee; for the slim but fleeting rain!
No, how I longed for thee, thee with me!
Oh the dear, dear love of my life! How sought is thy presence, how cherished it is in my fair chest!
Had I then to relent,
I sprang from my lavished comfort, I retreated to my creaking den
And wanly blent myself into the scenes, again.

Child, woman.
Wise, innocent.
Stained from the past
with blood of the ages,
generations make their nations
out of common DNA.

Slipping slowly
is my memory of youth.
Not forever forgotten,
but the little girl inside
is like an apparition,
who has tried to go away
for good.
I yearn for the newness she once had,
and I wonder if I'll ever
know her again.

Paradoxical chimes
on the ticking clock
fog my yesterday
and alarm my tomorrow.
Memories are like a sun-setting dusk,
some at peace, some not.
The future and I never met
But I want to race there to meet it
and not in foolishness pass by today.

Not underaged,
not a wise, old sage,
I'm a half-breed to both
Thirtysomething.
Stuck in the middle.
Wading waist deep in exasperation
waiting to fly,
to fly higher and higher,
regretting that I did not fly that far.
But I cannot turn this watch inside out,
I cannot turn back time.
Can I accept that?

I'm half brave,
half afraid.
I'm part greedy,
part giving.
I want to be part
of the whole picture
of the puzzle...
but I'm holding back
the missing piece.

Child, woman.
I'm a tree splintered in two directions,
and after much inspection,
I wonder...

Which one will I be?

I am surely not an artist,
For I can't paint or draw,
Nor am I a singer,
I sound far from raw.
Geometry is not fun to me,
For I dislike angels and sides,
I will never be a professional surfer,
My fear of high waves and tides.
I will never be a chef,
I can't cook a meal,
I can't jazz dance,
I hate the color teal.
I am no acrobat,
I never took drugs,
I've never smoked or drank,
Or put salt on slugs.
I don't like a big breakfast,
I loathe being sick,
I dislike unfriendly people,
I watch every clock-tic.
I don't like reading long novels,
Nor comprehending difficult ones,
I hate poetry that doesn't rhyme,
It puts great presuure on me; tons.
I am not greedy.
I am not self-centered,
Success id far from what I feel,
This is anxiety, I've now entered.
This is not me,
This will never be me,
I am myself and nothing more,
I am different, as you see.

The sky is grey
With falling ash.
I wait upon
The snapping lash.
The sonic boom
That scalds my skin.
Bites my back,
Licks my chin.
A cry bursts through
My ****** lips.
And tiptoes through
The sails and ships.
My face is raw
And black and red.
By blades as thin
As pin and thread.
The rope that binds
With hostile ease,
Is as merciless
As the greedy seas.
The cannons gleam,
And spit out smoke
Then fire sang,
And war awoke.
I strained a gaze
On black and white,
That streamed right through
The brightened night.
Now torn to shreds
And at my feet,
It was the last
Of the pirate fleet.

I know it sounds annoying,
and I know I keep droning on,

but I can't stop complaining...
And it's really hard to move along.

Do you know what it's like,
to live everyday...and wish you could be somebody else? Other than yourself?

I sometimes hate who I am.
All I can think about is being her.

I think I ought to be checked,
I seriously have a disorder.

"Stop! I'LL HAVE NO MORE! Stop with the obsessions! I don't wish to do this anymore!"

Do you know what it feels like to compare yourself to others...every second, of everyday?

My existence is based off of insecurites beyond belief
and wanting beyond my reach.

I wish I could stop, but no matter how many times I tell myself to...I can't.

This life of greedy desire has only just begun....

I am surely not an artist,
For I can’t paint or draw,
Nor am I a singer,
I sound far from clean and raw.
Geometry is not fun to me,
For I dislike angles and sides,
I will never be an accountant,
Or a phenomenal  surfer,
The fear of high waves and tides.
I will not be a chef,
I can’t cook to perfection for a meal,
I can’t jazz dance well,
Failure, I feel.
I am no cartoonist,
I never and will never take drugs,
Vile and grotesque suits them,
I’ve never smoked or drank,
Or put salt on slugs.
I don’t like breakfast,
I loathe being sick,
I dislike unfriendly people,
I am not fond of waking up early,
I don’t like reading long novels,
Nor comprehending difficult ones;
I hate poetry that doesn’t rhyme,
It puts pressure on me, tons.
I am not greedy,
I am not self/centered,
Success if far from what I feel,
This is negativity I’ve now entered.
This is not me,
This will never be me,
I am myself and nothing more,
I am different, as you see.