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.