O Little One

You don’t want me to hold myself up on my own, but you hate the way I fall apart. A tantrum, you call it. You name it childish. I have held my own from the time I was a child. So, call me childlike. All it means to me is fierce independence and freedom from the laws that bind you and the anxiety that claws your back at night.



A note.

There is a certain vulnerability in expressing a spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings to others,
and if you, as a writer, are unable to feel the threat of judgment
as your words escape the prison of your rib cage,
bouncing round in the red orb hung delicately within your chest,
then siphoned through the mind and escaped through the lips or finger tips,
then you are unable to call yourself a poet.

Just saying.


I want so badly to be indifferent
I wish wholeheartedly not to feel

But every word, and every smile
forces my memory to reveal

The hidden thoughts, a secret world
I’ve tried quite often to bury

Because no one here could understand
and shouldn’t I be wary

To reveal what was once concealed
and so boldly preserved

A thought to spark this secret desire
what’s worse, I thought I deserved…

He didn’t care, he wouldn’t dare
to become someone who loved

And this I pushed aside with glee,
thinking I’d avoided being shoved

This way, that way, back and forth
A world I cared not to know

But now I stand on ground well trodden
feeling things I’d long forgotten, see the glow

And how it shows the light in my eyes
at the same time with the light is the dark

It always overwhelms and swells
sadness hunts joy, sorrow a shark

Cutting through the happy waters
of my tepid disposition

As it swells and rises like a tide
when my bosom holds this recognition

And so I stand up to say, I’m sorry,
I can’t, good bye and I must go

We can’t be friends because of this
thing I can’t let go, even though, even though…