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.

 

Arms of Apollo: A Source of Inspiration

 

There will come a day – one day – you’ll discover something that wakes the snoozing inspiration inside you. You’ll find yourself creating, not just to create, but because if you don’t do it, it will feel like a betrayal to inspiration, to yourself and to them all at once.

It could be anything.
Anyone.

And it was music.

Say No, Love, Maybe They'll Listen One Day

 Say no, love. Maybe one day they'll listen.

---

Or maybe not - maybe they'll ask again and again until you give in. 
Coercion. Say no, Love. One day, maybe one day the feeling may fade, that you said no and they never listened - and now you aren't sure - and now you wonder. Is it all in your head?
Did you make it up to feel something - but is this something you really wish to feel?

Lie there, quiet. Maybe then it will all end.

Maybe it will never end - a loop. It plays on repeat in your mind year after year. Sometimes you remember in the middle of the day - sometimes you have to leave the room when all these perfect strangers joke about it.

They'll joke about it, those who experienced no such thing.

Oh, how they joke, but they've never felt the full weight of a man on top of them. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to look, so you close your eyes.

If you're lucky, he'll turn you around, so all you see is everything except him. But he's still there, right there, right behind your back. And you'll be scared, but you think, just for a moment, that next time, if you say no again, he won't ask and ask and ask again until you give in and you lie there like a dead fish, motionless, soundless, coerced. 

And then maybe there's a next time. 

Or multiple times.

Cold hands. Warm room.

Spinning.

The room spins, love, if you think about it. Your vision will blur again, but not from tears, nor fear - he isn't here anymore after all. You don't talk anymore. You don't talk and you won't tell anyone what happened because you know your side of the story is the side they don't want to hear.

But what were you wearing? Oh, my heart on my sleeve. 

And it was fine - only now it bleeds.

You took a beautiful thing and tainted it with distress - so listen when she says no. 
Youth is no excuse here.

You should have known better - or not. This one's not up for debate.

There are no blurred lines. Not with 'No'. Loud, quiet, repeated, resigned.

"But I only asked again to see if you've changed your mind."

But you only asked again until I had to change my mind.

Say no, love.

Even if he doesn't listen.

How sick I feel just thinking of it, even as the years go by - my fingers cold, the room so warm, and my stomach in knots for all the no's you did not acknowledge. The don't's, the don't want to's. 
Asked until I gave in, motionless, soundless, the weight of a body heavy upon mine.

The weight of a body heavy upon mine.

The weight of a body heavy upon mine that I did not want there.

That I did not want there.

And as the years go by.

And as the years go by it gets hazy in my mind - but I wrote it all down so it remains exactly as it happened back then - never shared - but unchanging so if I decide to read it again one day I will know if I lied. But I will never read it again, I know, because it plays in my mind still and that is enough.

I wish it would stop, but it never stops.

Not as the days go by.

Not as the years go by.

I was talking about you some time ago to someone I know - I told her what you did, no labels, no accusations. Just what happened - she was the first to say it, right to my face and the world, maybe it did end. Just a little bit.

What you did.

It wasn't fair.

I trusted you and you turned that trust into something you can never get back.

Say no, Love. Maybe one day they'll listen.

And, well, if they don't, then it was rape.

It was always rape.

 

Droplet of Honesty

 

Here I am, distributing little droplets of honesty.
Where I decided I do not like to lie or bend the truth and I wish I could tell you those things that I know I should not; because we are not close, not like that. But I’m a yearner and I remain so – forever, and probably more. Longer, for the longest time, I’ll keep on craving just a bit more than I can get. More than you can give – and it’s no fault of yours. Or mine. Perchance no fault at all, just the way things are.

There Is a Piece of My Soul Somewhere in The Universe

 I don’t believe in love, not quite, not at all. Despite this, I know I must have loved someone, or something, at some point in this life. Or maybe I never did. Is there really a way to tell? There cannot be, and if there was, I do believe it would not matter if love was true, or love was not.

I don’t always believe in things that I know to be true, but then again, what do I know – knowledge evades me as water does oil. I could look at something and see it and yet it still would not exist. Or not cease to exist.