Here I Am

I love you.  I love you like I’ve never loved another man.

It wasn’t my intention.  It was never part of the plan.

But there it is.  Here I am.

I want you.  I want you in all the ways you can give.

I want your heart. It can’t be wrong to feel like this.

There it is.  Here I am.

I get it.  I understand all the reasons I shouldn’t.

I see all the flaws and understand you think you couldn’t.

But there it is.  Here I am.

I long for you.  I long for you in ways I had forgot.

I long for you even though I know I should not.

There it is.  Here I am.


Coming Clean

I am caught up in the feelings you gave me.

Like no one and nothing will ever replace

the words you said and the looks on your face

all because I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.

If you didn’t want my love,

why did you touch my hand?

I know I will never understand

the subtle nuance of romance verses friendship.

I couldn’t stand it anymore

and had to get it out however harshly.

It’s black or white, middle ground is no good to me.

I think I sprung it on you a little to fast.

I won’t forget the way you looked

or the exclamation you gave at my confession.

I guess I’ve learned my little lesson.

I’ll never say I love you again.

The Brick Wall

He told me

that my problems are a brick wall.

That my choices are few:

Stand there and stare at it for the rest of my life

or tear it down,

one red brick at a time,

and get past it.

And so I made myself

a constant construction zone,

always tearing down walls

and casting bricks behind me

till the landscape was littered

as far as the eye could see

with useless masonry

and I was no longer myself

but a girl with a harder edge

and calloused hands

and dirt mixed with tears

on a sunburned face.

And then he left me.

And despite all the roughness

I’d acquired, my heart was still soft

and still broken in the end.

So I grabbed up the pieces of my heart

and picked up discarded bricks

till my back ached

and, using my tears and

ground up pieces of my naivete,

I made mortar.

And carefully and expertly,

I built a wall around the pieces of my heart,

a tower of Babel, reaching far into the grey sky,

where no man could ever touch it again.

What I Should Say

I suppose these are things you should know.

I tend to keep important things to myself,

bottling them up till they pour out

at the wrong time and in the wrong way.

And I don’t want to do that this time.

So here it is.  This is what I should say:

I suppose I should tell you that I love you.

After all this time, I thought you would have guessed.

It would make things much easier for me if you had.

I mean, everyone knows it.

Everyone except you.

I should tell you that I’ve loved you for a long time now.

And, honestly, how could I not?

You’ve always been more kind to me than is necessary.

A person like me, who’s been mistreated before,

will always appreciate kind acts.

And you are always so kind.

I guess I should say thank you for making me laugh

and for making me smile when it doesn’t come easily.

You always know the right thing to say.

Or at least you’re not afraid to say the stupid thing

when it will make a stupid girl

grin and shake her head.

I think I should tell you that I notice you

and that I think sometimes you notice me in return.

You always find a way to find my eye and I’m grateful for it.

I’m grateful that you see me as I really am,

that you’re not fooled like everyone else.

I should probably tell you how happy I am to know you

and that you make my day better just by being there.

I know they said I mope when you’re not around.

I guess my thin disguise is thinner than I thought.

But sometimes you’re the only reason I wake up.

Maybe I should throw an apology in there.

You give me much more than I could ever give you.

I’m sorry I can’t be more than what I am.

It’s because of you that I want to be better.

 I feel so lucky just to know you.

The Important Thing

(I saw this quote by Sylvia Plath:

“Some things are hard to write about.

After something happens to you,

you go to write it down, and either

you over dramatize it or underplay it,

exaggerate the wrong parts or ignore the important ones.

At any rate, you never write it quite the way you want to.”

And so it got me thinking and here’s what I wrote:)


The important thing was that he had died.

The important thing was that he had lived.

The important thing was what he meant to me.

The important thing was how I felt without him.

The important thing was that he made me know I could be loved.

The important thing is that it all means so much.

He is all the words I meant to say,

but couldn’t scribble them down before they slipped away.

I hit the page with the pen

at least twice before the sentence begins.

What if these words aren’t the ones that express

my meaning, making meaning meaningless?

A word at the right time is good and fine,

but one wrong sound

is even more profound,

and will put you under ground.

He makes me nervous, being new and the same,

inciting strong feelings still to be named.

Mistakes from the past have made me aware

of the loss of great things and that some are still there.

I don’t know how to take things that are said,

or how to deal with the empty bed,

and the quiet house and the sad thoughts.

I don’t want to feel things I think I should not.

But he makes me happy in ways I have missed:

the light in his eyes and the lips to be kissed,

and teasing tones

and lover’s moans

still to be heard:

saying so much without a single word.

He has disappeared,

something I now know I had always feared.

I was afraid of the risk involved,

now the problem is solved

and I can never say

to him how strongly I wish it hadn’t ended this way.

Another has come to take his place.

I find it difficult, at times, to look at his face.

I know what I lost before,

and I’m afraid to feel anymore.

The reasons are always the same not to love.

Once I receive it, I can’t get enough.

And when it’s there, it can be stripped from my grasp.

Will I be able to keep some of it at last?

The important thing is that he talks to me everyday.

The important thing is that he listens to what I have to say.

I see things in him that I valued in you.

The important thing is that I see the differences too.

I’ve learned what I like from the troubles I’ve  gone through.

And nobody changes in the end.

I’ll always miss you, my love and my friend,

but days keep passing by for people like me

and if I’m not with you at least I can be

with someone like you, who’s goal in this world

 is to love, and be loved by, an imperfect girl.

That is the important thing.

The Cat and the Candle

I must be awake in your dreams

because I can’t sleep

even though I’m dog-tired

and I have promises to keep come morning.

I can’t keep taking your fickle ways

and the moves you make

that never lead anywhere.

It’s not that I don’t care, I do.

But you don’t want to admit the truth.

Or maybe I’m wrong,

all wrong about you.

But I can’t keep following you around

making a fool out of myself

for your sake

when it seems like I’m not worth

the chance you’d have to take,

at least not in your estimation.

Cause I know that there’s noone out there

as good as we could be.

If you could only see things like I see them.

But life goes on and I can’t keep waiting.

Be a man and spit it out

or go about your daily life

and forget how we looked in

each other’s eyes and saw

the answers to questions we’d asked

since the day we had sense enough to ask questions.

Then you’ll have to find a girl to make up for the loss of me

and I’ll be a regret that you’ll always have

along with the bitter and boring philosophy

that is wasn’t meant to be,

when the truth is we make our own fate

and I couldn’t take

one more day

of the feeling I got when you stole my breath away

while you acted like you didn’t know.

Or maybe I don’t mean anything to you.

I don’t know.

But you know,

I’m a curious cat.

I can’t let it go at that.

So next time I see you, I’ll say my peace.

I’ll gauge your response

to the things that I say at great cost,

things I’ve held inside because I was afraid.

And you’ll say what you’ll say,

and if you don’t love me, I’ll walk away

from what I’ve called friendship.

If you don’t love me, I don’t want to be your friend.

I know I’ve been obsessed with us.

And if you don’t love me like I love you,

it’s not worth the agony that I go through

seeing you everyday,

knowing how great

you are and knowing I’ll never mean to you

what you mean to me.

I’ll say goodbye.

I’ll wound my pride.

And I’ll blow out my heart

that’s already sputtering and flickering,

so I won’t ever have to feel the sting

of one-sided love ever again.

Will you ever see the way I am?

Will you ever give a damn?

I think we both know you do now.

Will you ever say it out loud?

I don’t know if I’m good enough

that I should one day feel your love.

I think sometimes you send it my way

But I don’t know just how to say:

‘I love you. Do you return

my feelings and does your heart burn

the way mine does when I’m with you?’

I don’t know how to start this hallow truth.

I see your faults.  I see your flaws.

I’m not so blind that they are lost.

I see them in you everyday.

But I still love you anyway.

I wonder if you notice mine.

What imperfections do you find

when your warm eyes seek me out?

What does your mind complain about?

I know I laugh self-consciously.

I never take things seriously.

I talk so much unless I’m sad

I’ve seen the other girls you’ve had.

And I know to them I can’t compare

with my muddy eyes and my frizzy hair.

But I have things they never will

and maybe you have had your fill

of beauty on an empty head.

Have I won you over with things I’ve said?

You know, my friend, we’re growing old.

Perhaps you want a hand to hold

who makes you laugh when you’re bald or gray,

not just a face that fades away.

I can’t see around the curve,

but I hope I can work up the nerve

to say I’ve loved you all this time

and build a life on what I find.

Something Worthwhile

I walk the same path

wearing a hole through the green grass

down to the red dirt below.

I know

things will never change

so long as I remain the same.

And the start and the end are a similar place

with a little less honor and a little less grace

than I had at first.

I walk the same way

as I have since the day

I learned to walk.

And idle thoughts and idle talk

fill up precious time under sunny skies,

and I notice the wrinkles I have around my eyes

that were never there before.

All the words said

and the ones kept in my head

won’t slow things down

or tell me where action can be found

bursting at the seams under the sun.

Or call to mind what I remember was done

when no trace can be found.

The heart keeps on beating

and constantly reaching

for something worth holding on to,

Something worth going through the things we go through.

And at least hope is alive and trying

and working to save those already dying

and making it all as beautiful as it can be.


Living here among the callousness

and all the conditions faced,

I have a need to become nameless,


once more.

If I let go of all that I am

could I somehow be given,


the chance to start clean and new again,

and be entirely unaccountable

for my former misdeeds?

Could my past be wiped away

with the flick of a wrist

or the promise that I

have learned my infernal lesson?

Could I be allowed peace of mind at last?

To have the past washed away like footprints on a shore

not to be seen in this world anymore?

I could start from scratch,

but knowing what I know now

and at least having half a chance

at happiness, which always

seems to just escape my grasp.


I am tired of writing pretty words

and making pretty pictures to pass the time.

I think I must create these things

to forget myself and that I mind

that I can’t feel like others do,

and only to forget for a moment.

Things will never be as they once were.

The time for it is lost to me and can’t be found again.

I think I finally understand

actions I could not comprehend before.

To be loved is not enough,

a person needs to feel it .

My heart refuses to understand.

And friendship isn’t going to fix it

and I long for someone to hold my hand

without having to believe it’s pity,

without having to believe it’s a lie.

But that never comes.

So I keep writing lines

and I keep making marks on blank pages

to pass the precious time.

I wish he hadn’t said what he did

because he ruined my words

and he ruined my pictures

by telling me the truth:

that I wish I didn’t have to write

and I wish I didn’t have to make marks

but that’s all I have

even though that’s not a life.

That’s all I have.