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Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I went on a walk today.
A long walk.
I was feeling weird, and I like walking.

But when I don't have anything to distract me from my thoughts
My mind wanders to you.

Then before I know it
I'm turning my head each time a car passes
That looks remotely like yours,
Just wondering if it was you.

I don't think it was.

But I couldn't tell that last time.

I really don't know why you consume my thoughts.
You're attractive,
And kind,
And passionate,
And mature,
And pretty much all of the things that I like in a man,

I mean,
There's no way I have a chance.
I don't have a chance.
I don't think I have a chance.
I guess I could have a chance.
What if I have a chance?
I totally have a chance.

Whatever, because
I'm totally over you,
So it doesn't even matter.

But I really couldn't tell that last time if
It was you driving the car.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
Fold me,
Pull me,
Twist me,
Crumple me,
Then tie me up.

Cover me in reds,
And purples and blues,

Then leave me alone.
For hours.
For days.

Let me sit
And detained
Soaking in
The red and blue and purple.

You come back when you want to.
And I let you pick me up and
Untie me,
Try to clean me.

I think I'm free,
I'm purple,
And red.

Tie dyed.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
My best friend and I are the ultimate example of opposites attract.

I am five foot, ten inches,
Fair skinned,
Blue eyed,
And light haired.

She is five foot, one inch,
More tan in the winter than I have ever been in the summer,
Dark eyes,
Dark hair.

And that is only in our physical appearance.

I am an emotional waterfall.
I cry often and with ease.

She can turn it off like that.
It's incredible how many tears of mine she had seen before I saw the first of hers.

I give in at the drop of a hat.
To the point it is not a good thing.
I am the first to say sorry, the last to speak up and
I rarely consider my opinions equal to the opinions of others.

She is a spitfire.
She knows what she wants and she will get it.
The first to speak her mind, stubborn as hell,
And Joan of Arc herself would be proud of how she stands up for herself, and her friends.

She brings out the things in me I didn't know existed.
I can be angry, opinionated and selfish around her.

Which is a really good thing.

I'd like to say I help bring out something good in her,
But honestly,
I can't believe that I help her nearly as much as she helps me.

I'm sure she'll make some comment to me on that last paragraph like,
"You know that's BS. You help me just as much as I help you."

And I guess I help her, because she's my best friend, and I'm her best friend.
But, well.
I rarely consider myself equal to others.

I think you know your best friend is your best friend
When a sufficient number of these things happen.

1. When someone tells you not to tell anybody something,
that "anybody" does not include your "best friend."

2. You Skype or call them to do nothing.
Just so they're there to stalk Facebook with you.
Or listen to you clean your room.

3. You talk about all the details of everything.
Even if they are so silly and miniscule
No one else in the world would care about them.

4. When you can rant about the same thing over and over,
And they will treat it like it's as big of a deal as the first time you ranted about it.

5. They call all your friends by name,
Even if they have never met them.

6. Sometimes you wonder if they know more about you
Than you know about yourself.

7. They can tell when there is something wrong
Based off of a single exhale.

8. They refuse to hang up the phone at ridiculous hours of the night
Because you are too sad to be left alone.

9. They sing you to sleep.

I think that good friendship, best friendship is a bit underrated nowadays.
I also think it's misunderstood.
I would be dead
Victoria Truax Sep 2013
Dear Seventeen-year-old Me,

I hate you.

No, no, I guess I don't hate you. But I sure do hate parts of you. I hate the part of you that didn't work for what you said you wanted. What the hell was that?

I apologize, Seventeen-year-old Me, because I know you will be disappointed in my use of the word hell, but "what the heck" just sounds like a joke to me now.

You worked a bit, I'll give you that, but when it came down to it, to the parts that mattered the most, you did next to nothing. You were holding your dreams in your hands and you sat back and watched as life took it away from you. You yelled and screamed and complained, but you didn't fight! You didn't even move!

So I say to you again, what the hell was that? And this time I do not apologize. Because now I don't have something to defend, 'cause you went and got a big head and lost it. So I will fight to gain back what you lost, and then I will fight even harder to keep it.

Because even though I loathe parts of you, you have taught me to fight for the things I want, the things I love, the things I dream about.

And for that I love you.
And for that I thank you.

See you sooner than you think,
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
Do you believe in fate?
Sometimes I believe in fate more than I believe in anything.
And then sometimes
I feel so lost that
There is no way fate exists.

I'm a believer.
In my mind
I've separated people in two different groups.

The Dreamers
The Practical.

That's not to say that one can't fit into both of these categories in different areas.
I think that it's more of a Venn diagram
Rather than a clear line down the middle.

I am a Dreamer.
Through and through.

It's hard for me to be practical sometimes
Because I believe in my dreams so much
I think I can go one hundred thousand dollars into debt
So that I can go to my dream University in England,
And it will all work out for me.
Because I believe.

I didn't go.

Because my father is a Practical and my mother is somewhere in the middle of the diagram.
And I was only 18.
And occasionally I see the Practical side of things.

But I think I'll always be a Dreamer.

And I like that about myself.
A lot.

I like that I have little concept of Practicality.
I live for the dream of my life.

Because if I face "Practicality"
Then Who Am I?

I would not be writing this poem right now,
I would be sleeping.

I would not be going to school to become an Actor,
I would be in Business or Marketing or Pre-Law.

I would not be doing what I love,
I would be doing something that's sensible or rational or Practical.

I know that would not be happy,
I would be confused and lonely and lost.

I believe in fate.
And I believe in dreams.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I've written four poems today.
I've posted none of them.

That's because they're all about love.

And I can't handle too many love poems.

Two of the four were oddly specific,
Three were much too mushy,
And the fourth was incredibly bitter.

I'll post this one.
This is not a love poem.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I've written four poems today.
I've posted none of them.

That's because they're all about love.

And I can't handle too many love poems.

Two of the four were oddly specific,
Three were much too mushy,
And the fourth was incredibly bitter.

I'll post this one.
This is not a love poem.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I've changed.
I've changed for the better.
And I like it.

I wear what I want to,
Do my hair the way I think it looks nicest,
I do my make up some days,
Don't do it others,

I am no longer trying to impress anyone
But myself.

I don't need a single soul to like me
Or love me

I've been holding myself a little taller,
Singing a little louder,
Laughing a little harder,
Telling people what I think, and
Being a little more of me.

And the world knows me a lot better
Than the old me
Would like.

But the new me
Loves it,
And the reasons that the old me
Hates it,
Is the exact reason I'm doing it.

Because I'm tired of doing things because
I think it will make me cooler
Or funnier
Or prettier
Or nicer
Or more talented
Or better liked
Or whatever else.

And I thought that
If I did what was
Or funny
Or pretty
Or nice
I would be confident.
I would finally be totally confident in myself.


Only when I decided that I am
Plenty cool
And plenty funny
And plenty pretty
Am I finally confident.

And the only person I needed to tell me that
I am good enough

Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I think I would like to have Shakespeare recited to me.
While I'm on a balcony,
Or leaning out an open window.

I deeply love Shakespeare.
And there's not much in the world
That can make me fall in love more quickly
Than well-performed Shakespeare.

That doesn't mean that I would fall in love instantly
With just anyone that
Performs Shakespeare for me.

Oh, no.

It simply means that
You instantly have a foot in the door.

Or if you already have a foot in the door,
Well, then,
I've probably fallen in love with you
By the third iamb.

I would like it
If a man were to stand below my window,
And after tossing a a few pebbles at the glass,
Smiled up at me and
Recited some well-rehearsed


I think that would be nice.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I ******.
I'm better.
Not friend.
Best friend.
I still have that.
You're dead.
You're dying.
I'm dying.
I'm dead.
I'm not dead.
You're blonde.
I'm not blonde.
I'm old.
I'm still old.
I'm a child.
I'm going to cry.
I don't cry.
No more crying.
I'm allowed to cry here.
That's why I cry here.
I'm allowed.
I can do what I want.
I know what I want.
I have no idea what I want.
But I think that's what I want.
I'm not doing what I want.
But this is enough.
It's not enough.
I'll make it enough.
Where am I?

Stop thinking.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
The caterpillar was raised by worms.
The worms loved the caterpillar,
But the worms didn't know much
About the caterpillar's nature.
They tried to understand,
And they tried to help as best they could,
But when the caterpillar got really hungry,
All they could understand was that
They had never been so hungry,
And they were happy,
And if the caterpillar wasn't careful,
He would become corpulent and fat.

So in their kind, ignorant, wormy way,
The wonderful worm family
Discouraged the caterpillar from eating too much,
And being too hungry.

The caterpillar was confused,
But he loved his worm family
So he tried his best to eat less and
Not get too hungry.

But the less the caterpillar ate,
The more hungry he got,
Until he was so starving,
He didn't even feel like himself.
He felt sad and sluggish and purposeless.

Then, in the middle of the night,
The caterpillar snuck up to he favourite leafy tree,
To just get a small midnight snack.
Before he knew it though, he had eaten
An entire branch of leaves.

And the caterpillar was still hungry.

He couldn't get enough.
He ate all through the night, and into the next day.
When his worm family awoke,
They saw the caterpillar up in the tree
Eating away.
They tried their best to get the caterpillar to stop,
But it was too late.

Soon with tears in their eyes,
The worms saw they're dear brother
Become sluggish and
Until finally
The caterpillar wrapped himself up in a whitened
Casket, and hang motionless in a leafy

The worm family mourned the loss of their beloved caterpillar brother,
And once again warned the other children about the dangers
Of being too hungry.

A few days later,
One of the wormy sisters went to visit her brother's grave.
But when she arrived she saw the most miraculous thing!
A butterfly was emerging from her brother's tomb.

The caterpillar-butterfly
Was not angry at the worms for trying to stop him from becoming a butterfly,
They didn't know he would be able to
Be a butterfly after all,
And they were just trying to keep the caterpillar from harm.

After the family had a beautiful reunion,
The butterfly flew away to somewhere
He could be hungry, and beautiful. And
Somewhere he could fly.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
There's a fine line between you and me.
Some days I tiptoe to the edge
And peek over to your side,
And wonder what it would be like to be
Looking at me
From your point of view.

I spend
Thirty percent of the time
Worrying about how silly I look,
Tiptoeing the edge,
Twenty-two percent talking and daydreaming about
What it would be like on the
Other side
With you,
Forty-three percent of the time
Convincing myself that
I don't give a crap how
Silly tiptoeing to the edge must look.

The last five percent
I spend thinking about how
The line
Is much thicker than
The dreamer in me
Would like to admit.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I read somewhere,
That there are seven people who look remarkably
Like you
On the earth.

I also read somewhere,
Or maybe I just thought it or felt it or dreamed it,
That there is no one in the
That hears the way you hear,
That feels the way you feel,
That thinks the way you think,
That smells or breathes or dreams the way you do.

Society tends to reject the words
When in reality
There is no one else
Like you.

We are living projections of

And yet each day,
Each minute,
Each second
We search for Normal.

Something that has been proven,
At least in my mind,
To not exist,
And to never have existed.

I hope that at least I
And you
Can grow to understand that the
Different, the
Inconsistent, the
Are, in fact,

The normal.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
There is a space between my fingers.
It is not large,
Nor is it small.
Not small because it is empty.
Not large because it's never been full.
The emptiness rarely looks the same.
Sometimes it looks lonely,
And others simply alone.

Sometimes my fingers forget
That just because they are empty
Doesn't mean
My Heart is.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013

Over a year ago
My theatre teacher told me
And a group of my closest friends
To write down
Exactly what we would do if
We found out we only had
Twenty-four hours left
To live.

My original draft was very juvenile,
Full of dramatic kisses
And dying in my crush's arms.

It was beautiful
For a seventeen-year-old romantic.

I don't know if my teacher realized
That I would become slightly
Obsessed with
What I would do
If I had twenty-four hours to live.
But whether she realized or not,
Obsessed I became.

I wrote "24" or my hand each day
For weeks,
To remind me that I could be
Dead in twenty-four hours,
Or less.

I wrote at least fifty drafts
Of what I would do
If I found out at that moment
That I had twenty-four hours left.
I would write a new draft when I decided
That the previous draft was
Too out-dated.
I think the longest lasting draft
During my surge of
Twenty-four hour hypotheticals
Lasted one week.

I was totally obsessed with daring greatly,
Doing the things I had longed to do
For weeks or months or years,
And suddenly I had the permission I needed
To do them:
Twenty-four hours to live.

My drafting came to an end when
My best friend
Handed me the best
Twenty-four hour outline
I had ever seen.

At the top read the disclosure:
And you get into heaven no matter what.

I couldn't surpass that list with any of my own ideas.
And my obsessment was already dimming.

A year and a half or more later,
I don't make drafts.
I'm not obsessed.
I'm not going to die.

But every once in a while
When I feel like I'm not living
To it's fullest,
I write "24" on my hand for
A few days.
Just to remind myself,
That at any moment,
My twenty-four hours left to live
Could be up.
Victoria Truax Jun 2013
I need to write a poem.
But I can't think how to
Put in words
What I

— The End —