lost.

it is impossible
for me,
to comprehend
how one sees me.

actions, reactions,
i’ve been told,
don’t make sense,
as facts unfold.

those close to me,
(or so i think)
oft hold against,
and thus i sink.

the bottom line
of being sane,
are boundaries
which must not wane.

it cannot be
the best choice,
that when afraid
don’t use my voice,

i let and let
and let some more,
and welcome those
bad through my door.

one day when,
(i hope i’m strong)
i’ll figure what
is right from wrong.

but for now,
i must accept,
that it’s me
i can’t protect.

i’m not sure
if this will come,
’cause as i’ve grown,
i’ve become

a girl who just
cannot tell,
those wishing bad
and wishing well.

confusing as
this may sound,
i feel i don’t
deserve my ground.

wanting always
to be nice,
it’s now myself
i sacrifice.

how i should act,
what i should be,
i’ve no clue–
it’s lost to me.

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push me, pull you.

why? oh, i know,
why? oh, i see–
can’t flee my mind,
i imprison me.

please push away–
with force, i ask.
please push me, fragile,
release as task.

i may still pull,
and tempt with sex,
unsure of feels–
and what comes next.

ah, it just is,
that when i pull–
i pull from fear,
fear when i pull.

please push away,
me far from you–
can’t end the game:
push me, pull you.

 

dove.

there was once
a little dove,
who turned her head
and fell in love.

and in just that–
a sudden start–
a match was made,
he’d won her heart.

the dove, she took
a little rest.
time to tend,
time to nest.

time to sing,
and time to prune,
time to find
her perfect tune.

the first note rings,
she coos the line,
“my eyes met his,
and his met mine.

we danced,
we shined,
we took delight
when evening led
to morning light.

as one’s just one,
but a pair two,
to all who ask,
our love is true.”

but no, oh no!
dear little dove,
true not was he
at all to love.

virtue in song,
beauty in coo,
to be true love
there must be true.

our dove, he left,
and why? we know
this one, he had
still seeds to sow.

yet still this song
our dove did coo,
weeping with tears
of naught he knew.

poor little dove,
knew not that she
lived one last song,
this coo for he.

so sang she did,
coo through the wood.
and sang she did,
’til naught she could.

our dove, alone,
sang her last note.
and love, forlorn,
her heart, it broke.

our little dove,
fell limp off tree.
dead on the ground,
yet was now free.

naught.

i think i’m fine,
and then i’m not…
i wonder why?
but i forgot.

’cause trying,
crying,
almost dying,
rips you
from the lot.

try scolding,
folding,
and then holding–
pry what’s what
from naught.

and we go.

sometimes you have the feeling of naught,

unsure of the reason or season for ought.

but then comes a summer when sometimes

we know…

and sometimes we feel and sometimes

we grow…

and sometimes

for some reason

per-haps we don’t,

but don’t give up for feeling that

never we won’t.

i love and give and even in funk,

i try to buck up–

not feel like junk.

so hats on

and bats on

and buck up, my girl,

no evil inside exists in that curl.