Perhaps
Tis all stuck in a moment
And this moment refuses to be seized
It calls to I
To my deepest reaches
And never leaves my side
Throughout the day, and its sun
I can hear it only vaguely then, if attention is allotted, hardly won
Then easily dismissed, and forgotten
Drowned out by the busy noise
And outshone by our star’s rays
But pierces my ears through the night, and its moon
And keeps me thrashing, tossing, awake
With its unbearably silent and scratchy scream
Whose throat that has conceived it:
Sore, raw, swollen
Red as the blood beneath.
With the perpetuating demand to be heard, but never granted, nor loved, nor held
And my only wish is to seize this
Trapped eternally in a sweet moment
But what is this, rubbish?
Without the hope of this moment?
And the nostalgia of its passing?
Alas, it cannot exist without the longing, the ache, and all of its untouchable perfection
For when I had it, I was not allowed to know
It was only when I yearned for it did I love, and cherish it so
And why
Must I be tenderly cursed to feel
With all my sensitivity and love that I no longer can, but must contain,
Cleanly seal

‚ÄčI had to be up so early this morning and my anxiety was as good as having a cup of coffee. But this anxiety kept me alive, alert, and panicked inside, like I needed to do something, but my outside just felt numb and dead. I wanted to go back to sleep and perhaps wake up in a different skin, one where I didn’t feel so uncomfortable in.

I thought about a lot. And I thought about your hands too. When I observe others in awe, it’s usually with their eyes. Their eyes are just so wide like they’re trying to see as much as they can and take it all in. But you.. Oh you and your hands. That is your medium of awe. You’re concentrated, and your hands become your eyes.

And I thought of you and holding your precious new born babe. And how you wouldn’t be able to stop touching, cradling the baby. Your brain.. so stimulated, awakened, so in awe. And so many times awe is mistaken for appreciation, and love. Awe is, but isn’t limited to, the reaction of the brain to a unique stimulus, at least from what I’ve deducted and attempted to define. But it is so heartbreakingly limited to this for you. And I hated you for it. Because that little life deserved more than the temporary awe, but the eternal awe which is in my theories, love.

And how my thoughts floated to you this morning of tender, tender hands with tender thoughts to rhyme, and as to why my thoughts and subconscious chose that? And how I couldn’t simply leave it at that, and had to pick you apart once more?

But I am always so sorry around you
You who don’t know me at all
In solitude I know myself
But I forget who I am
When I am surrounded by you
You who are so big,
So tall

The intimidation
The fear
Suffocates my very own thoughts
And I forget how to think
I only know then how to please
To say sorry

In these moments
These encounters
I forget who I am,
What I want,
And what is right
I am only worried about making you
(Who is so big,
And so tall)
Comfortable, unoffended

You don’t know me
So if you hate me
You’re hating
The one who lives to please you
But oh
That is not me
To me you are
So short
So small
No,
You are nothing at all

As a person with dominate introverted intuition and auxiliary extraverted feeling, I know what is true about myself but am also receptive and believing of the opinions of others who love me, and are supposed to know me best out of the rest of the world’s population. If what they believe about me contradicts what I believe about myself, I am left feeling painfully misunderstood, whilst also questioning who I really am, and if I really am the person they believe me to be. The conflict is awfully unsettling. I am left to my own solace, which isn’t much of a comfort at all. I really wish I could just trash their opinion, it’s wrong but it’s not that simple for me, my heart, and essence.

You tell me I’m so smart
You tell me you’re so dumb
And every time I talk to you
I become so numb

The mounds of adoration you have for me
Can they really exist?
When the me I have been giving you
Feels like a vague gist

Do you think I’m peeling back my layers
As you beckon for more
Honestly, being with you is a chore
A draining anxious bore

And I loathe myself for admitting this is true
Because
On the contrary
I truly love you

dewy youth filled his firm face skin
no wrinkles around the mouth or eyes that time would one day stricken
but the ones who had even the slightest of sight could see
that longing, and very sad was he

it was subtly in his way
and soft, sad hope in the words he would say
his shoulders did not sit upright
and his smile rarely squeezed the area around his eyes

his happiness was somewhere
perhaps in summer air
hidden in the crunch and color of autumn leaves
and in the redemption of spring, with the working honey bees

winter was not his season
but he loved to long for a reason
oh he was grateful, the anxious anticipation
only fueled his profound appreciation

But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves standing there alone without its friend near, for I knew I could not

-Walt Whitman