I hate the way I look.

I hate the way I feel to touch.

I hate the way stupidity rolls of my tounge.

I hate the way my eyes give me away.

I hate that I cry.

I hate being misunderstood.

I hate having to explain myself over and over.

I hate that just because I have my head in the clouds,

people think I'm not grounded.

I hate that I'm not first choice; I'm the participation-prize.

I hate that being a girl is bad.

I hate not being able to show how vulnerable I am.

I hate that I'm not strong.

I hate that I hate myself.

I hate that I hate myself this much.

Cryptic signs.

Knowing what's going on.

Knowing the feelings felt.

Wool Over eyes, I think not.

People think she's not with it.

But she is.

She's wise.

She knows the lies.

what is truth, but our own demise?

It's all just so busy.

I star fish the floor, limbs draping from wall to wall.

Such a tiny little box.

I'm stuck.

The walls are white to the unknowing eye,

But my eyes know.

I look deeper.

The spinning patterns tripping over eachother,

melding together to make one,

before dispersing to make something new.

These patterned walls are like my mind.

Only those who know will see.

Only those I trust will have a hope of understanding.

The hectic restlessness, spinning out of control.

The curious humming as my mind trips over itself,

inaudible to those who aren't between my ears.

I can try to explain what it's like to be in my head.

Words just don't do it justice.

From the outside, I'm a white wall.

Nothing.

Bland.

Bleak and weak.

Clinicaly polite.

But on the inside,

My head screams with colour and texture.

Sequences of moments, repeating over and over,

ever changing, ever evolving.

It never stops.

The whirring constellations emulating the outside world.

There's no method behind my madness.

I'm just mad.

I felt so low again.

There's no reason for it.

The morning comes, and my eyes don't want to open.

I roll over and lethargy takes control.

I won't get out of bed today.

I shut myself out of this world.

Crawl into the depths of my mind.

I wander around, creating scenarios,

a world of all my dreams and hopes;

a world of all my sorrows and wretchedness.

I lie motionless, I could be dead.

My heart beating slow.

My love for myself, as low as it can go.

I spend hours here.

A pause in my time.

A ripple in the expanse of my oceans.

I can't get out of bed today.

And that's okay.

Tomorrow I will start afresh.

A new day shall dawn,

and with it, a new me shall be born.

From my ashes, I will rise.

I will not be my own demise.

These waves wash over me,

and I will take my moments when I am free.

Free to roam and be grateful again,

when I am ready, that will be when.

I’d never even talked to her

just watched her from afar

but that girl she had a way of

breaking hearts and leaving scars

#poetry #micropoetry

What I miss most

Cannot be felt by fingers

Only hearts

It lingers in memories

Of the sunshiny days

And the dreamy twilights

Under the sun

We'd laugh and we'd play

Gallopping like wild colts

But when the moon shone

At the end of the day

We'd dream again of tomorrow

These memories take us back

To the good old days

When we had not a care in the world

The sun is setting

On those sweet years

Goodbye, Childhood

Hello, tomorrow

Glass forest trickles droplets

onto northbound Vermont 9.

Entire hillsides, crystalline,

both east and west,

glisten in the barely warm.

Three miles from the town

with little shops and

beds and breakfasts where

a crossing guard halted

us for a peacoated woman

walking to church,

one mile from the covered bridge

spanning the stony creek,

between two farmhouses each

with signage promising fresh

syrup and cheddar,

I observed McKay’s Used Car Lot.

He wore a red hooded sweatshirt,

around thirty with goatee, and on a

tiny balcony, the type one

associates with a Swiss chalet

overlooking a lake, not

an architecturally nondescript house

overlooking a dozen 80,000 mile Chevys

parked over brownish snow.

He leaned on the rail, smoking a cig,

surveying his domain with his

small fire held in his lips,

feeling suave or scornful—

I cannot know.

A trap is a getaway minus choice.

.

.

.

Isn't this called...

Wonder ?

.

.

.

I am always in wonder

and awe

.

.

.

because, as someone much wiser than me once noted:

all the efforts of the human mind cannot exhaust the essence of a single fly.

There is too much beauty and intricacy in this world

not to wonder at it all.