Friday, July 8, 2011

Something (I Don't Actually Know), and This is a Poem

Some call me a dreamer,
But I am what I am,
How can I change?
I hold my hands pressed together,
Trying not to cry.
It's the simplest things these days.
I taste what simply is,
The existance of regret,
A tangy memory begot
Of broken hearts and slamming doors,
Walking out and nobody knows.
The suitcase is packed,
And I undo it all.
Shaking hands, sobbing heart,
I curl up in a corner of no escape,
I reach out and pull my hand back,
I don't want their help.
The ceiling's rough and so's my heart,
And slowly we're both falling apart,
The ceiling will one day be crumbled in dust,
And my heart will one day be fragments of what was.
I scrabble for that piece of love,
That day when I was happy.
Little ones never seem to notice such idle obvious things
Such as race or hair or clothes,
Like we do know,
Just to get an excuse to discriminate.
Little ones never have had any complications
Beyond stolen crayons and minor fights,
But what I've had is a hope that silently fights,
Its only shield the love that comes in and falls out,
Again and again.
So bruised, battered, broken,
I drag myself to another day,
I swear to love and break my heart,
Because when you love the world there's only disappointments.
But I've learned something in these fourteen years,
That disappointment is better then hatred, stark and still,
And if you're disappointed you're less likely to be bitter.
So I watch the sun and fake a smile,
I listen to a song,
I'm tied together with a smile, but I'm coming undone.
And I wonder to myself,
How could I be this way inside?
How can I feel so old when I'm so young,
And yet be a scared little girl?

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