You said to meet you in the park,
and I came like a good girl should
in my fancy dress and Mary Janes.
I was always trying to impress you,
but my petticoat was torn and soiled,
and my shoes were scuffed and worn,
and I wasn’t quite enough for you.
Oh, but I so admired you in moments
that were ordinary and unlikely.
You were so inspired that I was left
to feel so very common and boring.
You’d take your coffee black at midnight,
and I would say unwittingly, “How nice.”
Your writings were tortuous and epic,
and I was, “Simply a cliché,” you said.
Your art was monumental with each stroke.
Your anger was beautiful and unexpected,
like when I burned your buttered toast,
and you were left to eat eggs alone.
You yelled with passion that I never felt
but forgave quickly, tossing breakfast aside,
and in those moments, my insecurities
slinked off my skin and out of my mind.
Being against you healed me, alright.
You said once, long ago, I was your muse;
you saw it in my face, and we were born.
So for days strung together, I would wait
to see that look again and feel your power.
And now I sit here and wait in the cold
for you to come and sit next to me,
to talk eye-to-eye on a bench for two;
It’s been so long since last I’ve seen you.
Oh, I do so remember the day you left me;
something about Amsterdam at dawn
and that you had your fill of New York,
single flats, and girls from the Carolinas.
I said, “You can’t, your paintings, your work…”
“Keep them,” you laughed me off in that way
you always did when you were bored by me.
I cried like a little girl, and you packed.
The muse was gone and no little thing
could keep you any longer inside this space.
You were an artist; I was careless to love you,
and so you left like you came…
I am still waiting in my dress and shoes
for you to meet me like you said you would
in your poem you wrote so long ago…
“In the park, your red dress finds me,
on a bench for two, you remind me,
that a love, which is consuming,
finds its way back to you…”
i don’t sleep.
i’m a mess
and i don’t sleep.
I want to write away the loneliness
but the pen rests idle in my hands,
staining them with unwritten letters
that have said too much already,
and perhaps not enough.
Lightning crashes in my my eyes
as I dream of you
chaos mixes with melancholy memories
and colors of yesterday
the storm of our love unfold
and I smile
Words came a calling for me yesterday on the wind
They were whispered days ago
Lost among the wind and flowers
fields where I layed thinking and dreaming of the days gone by
They fell like silent tiny dancers
on my ears they had gone deaf from
the chaos in my heart
She is far from the land, where her young hero sleeps,
and lovers are round her, sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying!
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains,
Every note which he lov’d awaking —
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking!
He had lov’d for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwin’d him, —
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh! make her a grave, where the sun-beams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own lov’d Island of sorrow!
Not all who wander are lost
Go and form
Enigmas that become ME.
Come to me
With the song in
sing it loud
So that my silent ears can hear…
Sing to me
what you think I want to hear
of what I need
Sing the song of passion and pain
and form a melancholy love song
where waves crash
And the water swells
To over take the girl who is lost…
Lead me back
To the place I need to be
with the melody of your heart.