i will admit
i am not the type of girl
to go to a bar and sit in a cloud of smoke
and listen to music purely because it is live
and i apologize if that is what you were expecting of me
but that is just not me
i am the type of girl
to go to old hidden bookshops and inhale the scent of literature
i am the type of girl
to sit on my bed at 4 am and talk about all the thoughts to a friend
i am the type of girl
who is more interested in sitting around a bonfire than going to a mall
i am sorry to any human expecting anything more or less of me
but i am not like that, it's just not me
i am a homebody, i am an lover of the arts, i am an introvert
i am a lot of things, but i am not a loud and extroverted human
i love my comfortable home and my few friends
now you are aware of my awkwardness and inability to be uncomfortable
i refuse to do something i don't want to
i am not going to do something purely because of the view of others
i am me, i am not going to change
and you are you, and you shouldn't have to change to get along with me
i apologize for expecting that of me, but then again
i am not going to apologize for being me

we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.
one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.
but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.
not their fault?
whose fault?
mine?
I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.
age is no crime
but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life
among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives
is.

There's something glittery
Below her flattering eyelashes
That never shows any Mystery
But are capable of burning me to ashes

Radiated dark lines underneath
Looks like heavens shine
Her careless makeup hid her pains beneath
And often washed her cheeks down in brine

It's her eyes that is green like one's in a daydream
It's her eyes that tries to hide all the pains
It's her eyes that mists over pretty things
It's her eyes that I want to kiss and never wants to miss

No, you're wrong.

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

Particularly at lunch
in a laughing restaurant

Everyone is as beautiful
as they can possibly be

And they are moved
by their own beauty

And they shed tears for it
in the back of the taxi home

In contact, lo! the flint and steel,
By sharp and flame, the thought reveal
That he the metal, she the stone,
Had cherished secretly alone.

to my friend who knows none of my writing
yet supports my passion with everything in your being
thank you for supporting me with everything in your soul
you haven't seen any piece that i have written
yet you believe that what i write is beauty
i appreciate you so much more than you percieve
and i hope one day that i am able to fully tell you how spectacular you are
i adore how kind and accepting you have shown yourself to be
i know we have only gotten close as of recently
but i am glad that i am able to know a person quite like yourself
our friendship reminds me of allen ginsberg and jack kerouac
speaking of honest emotions and desires
thank you for supporting the poetry you have yet to see
and thank you for supporting the honest me

out of the arm of one love
and into the arms of another
I have been saved from dying on the cross
by a lady who smokes ***
writes songs and stories
and is much kinder than the last,
much much kinder,
and the *** is just as good or better.
it isn't pleasant to be put on the cross and left there,
it is much more pleasant to forget a love which didn't
work
as all love
finally
doesn't work ...
it is much more pleasant to make love
along the shore in Del Mar
in room 42, and afterwards
sitting up in bed
drinking good wine, talking and touching
smoking
listening to the waves ...

I have died too many times
believing and waiting, waiting
in a room
staring at a cracked ceiling
wating for the phone, a letter, a knock, a sound ...
going wild inside
while she danced with strangers in nightclubs ...
out of the arms of one love
and into the arms of another
it's not pleasant to die on the cross,
it is much more pleasant to hear your name whispered in
the dark.