I Guess

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I guess you could say I’m agnostic,
But I don’t mean about God;
My philosophy studies show me He’s real.

Love of wisdom.  Latin.  Philosophy means love of wisdom in Latin.

You could say I’m agnostic about men.

Or maybe atheist.  I don’t know.

Well, yeah, duh.  They exist.  But I mean good men.

And yes I see the elderly man hold the door for his wife and that young chap kiss his daughter’s forehead and this guy over here

well

do something else that I guess good men do.

I guess.

But every bad man always told me he was a good man.  Swore, in fact.  And usually, he acted like it

in front of other people.

But then it was my fault he was angry (allthetime) and my fault he got bad grades and my fault helovedmebuthedidn’t.   And it was my fault hewantedtokissmeandhedid and my fault heregrettedit and my fault he nevercommitted(fortwoyears).

And it was my fault that I bled (even though everyonedoes).  And my fault he had a bad day at work (everyday).  And it was a crime punishable by beating that a two year old girl didn’tknowhowtoblowhernose.

And that time I cried was stupid.

And it was my fault I was twentyyearsyoungerthanhim. My fault I couldn’t move.  My fault for being the onlyemployeekindtohim. My fault he wanted to puthishandsandlipsonme. And I guess it was my fault he waited untileveryoneelsehadgonehome except me because I was still working.

And I guess good men probably exist.

But I guess also that I want to believe it but I can’t.

He Told Me…

He told me he loved me

in snowflakes and raindrops

and teardrops.

He showed me he loved me

in dandelions and staircases and sunrises.

I told him to leave me

in chilled air and nighttime

and teardrops.

I tell him I love him

in distance and quiet and ink.

The Sistine Chapel

I am the Sistine Chapel.  My life grew not from shy strokes nor hesitant applications, but from bold, purposeful strikes of a warrior’s sword.  Michelangelo was at battle with emptiness, nonexistance.  How to make the strong-willed hole of a nothing into a something?  And at that — a something with grandeur.  One must fight, because nothingness is powerful.  How does one see what one cannot see?  How does one create what never was?

Our Duet

Are we dancing in tune to a heart’s rhythm so close but without touch?  Or am I simply a maid twirling around a deserted ballroom where the smell of love still clings to the air?  Is our duet just a dream that hope paints as reality? Is it just a dream?

(I may add on to this)

For Onyx

You were always her best friend,
the one for whom she lived.
She loved you so sweetly
with a love only little girls can give.

You were her comfort and her joy,
her prince in shining armor.
When all fell apart here,
you gave her support and shelter.

You were everything when I wasn’t —
everything I should have been.
I guess it’s too late to thank you
for giving her something to believe in.

I never went to see you like I said to her I would.
Never thought a horse would keep a promise more than I could.

You Could Say

You could say that I am not extraordinary,

and  I could say you’re right.

I’m not one whom princes sweep off into the night.

 

I don’t wear pretty dresses or get asked to dance.

No, they never throw me a second glance.

 

I don’t bat my lashes or make quirky remarks.

And I certainly won’t chase any cold, selfish hearts.

 

But I dream my dreams a thousand times,

and I count the stars in the black night sky.

And I’ll dance with the wind and sing with the breeze,

and blow kisses to the lonely willow trees.

 

You could say that I am not extraordinary,

but I’ll say that you’re wrong.

In those places you’ve searched, I won’t ever be found.

 

But you can find me outside dreaming my dreams a thousand times

and counting the stars in the black night sky.

I Dream…

Maybe I have not yet experienced love as it is meant to be experienced, but I still have emotions that run as deep.  I still have passions and dreams and hopes for my life.  So many people have a false misconception that life does not begin until one experiences love.  How sad it must be to live in such a way.  I do not mean to degrade love; it is beautiful, and I am excited to find it some day.  However, it is but one glass tile in the mosaic of life’s mysteries.

I dream of making the world a better place, even if my contribution to this effort is small.  I want to touch hearts, to help others.  I want to strengthen friendships and form new ones.  I want to spread smiles and laughter — to set the world on fire with joy.  I dream of a world where strangers greet eachother with genuine smiles on the streets.

I dream of graduating college and being independent, of painting masterpieces and singing ballads.  I dream of getting a Master’s degree in Art Therapy, and of helping children with disabilities.

I wish to serve.  I wish to serve the people around me, in my community, and all over the world.

I hope to better myself, to reach perfect kindness and patience and humility.  I hope to grow in strength and knowledge and confidence.

Most of all, I hope to attain holiness…perfect holiness – sainthood.  I am far from reaching such an honor, but maybe one day the distance that separates me from this goal with be smaller.

And maybe I will fall in love, and he will fall in love with me.  And if this happens, we will get married and start a family.  But if that is not in God’s plan, then I still believe that without it, my life will be worth the memory.

The Identity of She

She has a habit of pulling her sleeves over her palms, so that only the very tips of her unpainted fingers are exposed.

She sometimes finds herself struggling to start and hold conversations because she is so consumed by the rushing thoughts of her mind.  She tries to talk, but her words get caught in her throat and her lips are sealed shut and she hopes that her eyes speak enough so that her voice is not needed to convey what she wants to say.  She is near mute.

She runs her fingertips across the denim of her jeans and wonders if the boy she admires ever thinks of her.

She twirls her ponytail.

The next day she struts out the door in a flattering dress and chic shoes, because she feels pretty — she knows she is pretty.  She adorns her body with a necklace and a touch of makeup — eyeliner, lipgross…perhaps he’ll wonder.

She walks with a bounce that matches the curls that hang loosely around her shoulders and exude a scent of lilacs and raspberries.  Her wide grin is ever present and her laughter is a constant source of warmth and joy and those around her cannot help but to laugh with her.

She sometimes questions her own sanity, for how can one person be so introverted and pensive one day and then so perky and cordial the next?

Her identity seems a mystery, and not even she — she who knows herself best — can make its discovery.

Love Epiphany

I began to write a poem

about how we could be a two.

But then I realized —

I’m too good for you.

Glasses

Behind the glass is where I hide —
Behind the fact of being blind.

From the world is distance there
Instilled by the transparent veil
That hides someone behind the glass
Who lurks deep within the back
of my mind.

Arisen from somewhere deep within —
Summoned by appearance of intelligence —
another persona.

And though my eyes are opened wide
There is no doubt within my mind
That with glasses, to the world,
My existence is now ignored.

So though my sight is very clear
Now surely I have disappeared.