For I am capable of being only entirely different than what is expected from me

Too much too soon, forever. I don't know how to be small, less or another. 

I only know to kiss the rain and marvel at the night skies freckled in stars. To be a little bit more than desired, always. One way or another. I'm capable only of loving, and that too, only deeply. Soon, too soon. Too deeply and in ways I cannot bear to do anything but remember. Despite so I find myself easy to forget. 

A mere face in the crowds, one of many. I'm not made for those with goals concrete, but even those with a soft spot for leisure find me a little less than ideal, a bit more than what is desired. A little less than what is desired.

I wish only to love and be loved in return; for something other than hands to lay upon me — though I do love the hands that caress I love more the mind that opens up to me, in poem, in prose, music or soul. 

Someone who finds me just enough as is. For a yearner to yearn for me for whom I too can yearn. To feel wanted on days I am not needed. Desired, maybe, but not just physically. To be dreamt of, thought of, every day, just once even, maybe twice.

But I am capable of being only too much for those whom I am entirely too little. Too playful — but who are you to change me. Too serious — because I disappear too easily in my work. 

 

Let me not grow old without having being just enough. 

 

To find a soul worthy of handling my flaws — one that doesn't deem my poems to be about a great deal of nothing, nor finds me shallow even with my words so openly on the page. I feel so deep sometimes words cannot express, and if words cannot express then how could I ever try.

I remain only too much too soon, but too little in the long run. I will, however, only ever be exactly as I am for when I try to force the change, I'm pulled back into who I was, just the same as I always was. 

 

For I am capable of being only entirely different than what is expected from me. You expect sunshine, but I bring calm summer rains. You expect a blizzard to sweep you off your feet, but I am merely frosted pattern on your windows in the early morn.

A poet, a writer, from whom you expect greatness but I write only of thought and feeling, images and imagery. Not very smart, but not quite so blind I cannot notice if I turn out less or more than you want. 

 

I tire of holding back — because even when there's barely a hint of my being on display it feels so much more than desired.

So, when can you want me the way I want you too — you faceless daydream, possibly never even real. Never was and never can be. How could you ever come to be.

 

Because time will pass, and yet you will not forget

 

Say no love, maybe one day they’ll listen
Maybe they won’t do what you don’t want them to do,
So your mind won’t have to be stuck there
In the room with its blue walls,
With the golden-wood bookshelf and the small window;
Or the bathroom with its bathtub in the middle
Where you once thought only trust could reside.
Before you said no to something and he did it anyway,
Before the thought of your own skin made nausea boil
In your throat, closing, closing so you cannot breathe;
Because time will pass, and yet you will not forget
How it felt to lie there, soundless, motionless
And how he didn’t notice or didn’t want to notice.
How the blue walls never will be safe again,
How there will be nothing left to mend;
No, because I feel dirty, gross, unlovable for something
That has never been my fault.