The Mirror

When I look in the mirror,

I hate myself.

I cannot find one small thing

that I enjoy about myself.

I do what I can

to change that

but nothing is never enough.

I’m starting to see why

models starve themselves

just to like what they see.

Maybe not such a bad idea.

 

 

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Go Out Walking

Every day I  go out walking

miles and miles of trails that wind

hoping, and praying,

to leave myself behind.

I’m looking for a new me,

one I can face in the mirror

because now all I can see

is someone far inferior.

Sometimes I think it’s working;

that all the struggles are worth it.

I  do everything correctly,

but nothing has changed a bit.

No matter how hard I work,

no matter how hard I strive

I’m greeted by the same person

at the end when I arrive.

Too Many Times

Too many times in the course of history

woman have been told to sit back and be quiet:

the men are talking.

 

Too many times in the course of history

woman have been told their opinions are cute,

but it’s the men’s who count.

 

Too many times in the course of history

woman have been told to stop talking

because the men don’t agree.

 

Too many times in the course of  my history

I have been told my opinions don’t matter,

by men of course,

simply because I see the world through a different lens

and thank God I do

because someone has to look out for someone

other than themselves.

 

The Rose

Today I will tell you the story

of a delicate rose who’s life

did not turn out as planned.

The Rose was planted in a garden

with hundreds of other roses.

Of course, she was not the prettiest.

She was plumper than the others

had a blemish or two on her petals,

and had a few extra thorns

to keep herself safe,

yet she believed in the same dream

as all the other roses:

that for someone she would be enough.

The Rose had spent many waking hours

hoping and dreaming of the day

when just the right person would

come along and choose her.

She wouldn’t allow herself to be picked

by just anyone walking by.

She wanted to be picked by someone

who would love her,

cherish her, adore her,

and take care of her until

her final day because, after all,

you can only be picked once.

She was fiercely determined to have

this dream come true more than any

other she had ever had.

But one day, a stranger came along

and right away she knew that he

was up to no go. He smelled of death.

She prayed as he began to slowly

examine each rose around her

that he would pick someone else

or hopefully, none at all so that

she and her neighbors could

all have their dreams fulfilled.

Unfortunately this evil stranger

set his devastating eyes on her.

Despite her begging and pleading

to be left alone, to not be picked,

he yanked her from the earth

aggressively, and against her will.

When the stranger picked  up The Rose,

he was pricked by many of her extra thorns

and threw her aside with disgust.

Sadly, The Rose was left plucked

and tossed to the side of the path

But still The Rose hoped that maybe,

someday, the right person would

come along and still be able to love

a rose that has already been plucked.

Alas, each day newer, kinder strangers

came into the garden and stepped over her

in search for a flower that

still had yet to be plucked.

The Rose continued to hold on,

holding in her heart a belief

that a truly good person

would come along and see

all the beauty she had to offer

to the world, even though she

had been damaged against her will.

One day, shortly after,

a man walked into the garden.

In The Rose’s heart, she knew with

almost as much certainty about this man

as she had had that the stranger that

had picked her was here to bring trouble,

that this new man was the one

she was intended to spend her life with.

This was the man who would take care of her

and appreciate her for the rest of her time.

He walked kindly through the flowers

and respected each and every one.

When he came to the Rose, simply

tossed aside, he bent over to pick her up.

The Rose’s heart beat with excitement

thinking that maybe, just maybe

she could still find happiness

and her dream could come true.

The man gave the rose a pitiful look

and said ” What a wonderful rose.

If only someone hadn’t already plucked you.

I only want a rose that I can pick for myself.”

With that, he laid the rose down delicately

amongst the other flowers

and picked a fresh, beautiful flower nearby.

The Rose’s heart fell.

She knew that this man here today

was her destiny: if only he had come

a week sooner, before her tragic event.

Then maybe, just maybe, life could

have worked out in her favor.

Instead, she lays amongst dirt and roots,

hidden by flowers still full of life and hope,

withering away to dried leaves and petals

waiting for the life to leave her worthless body

hoping that maybe in her next life

things will turn out better.

 

Lipstick on a Pig

You can put lipstick on a pig,

but guess what?

It’s still a pig.

So maybe if people continue

to call something

other than what it is

in your eyes,

even though you’ve tried

to cleverly disguise it as

something else entirely,

then maybe,

just maybe,

it’s time to admit you have a pig.

 

 

Author’s note: Please don’t actually refer to a girl as a pig. This is just a metaphor. She will not appreciate it.

 

The Last Time

I can’t recall the last time someone looked at me

and told me what they like about me.

I can’t remember the last time someone gave me

an ounce of hope that maybe I am pretty.

I can’t distinguish in my mind the last time someone

made me feel good about myself…

but I can sure as hell give you a list

of all the times someone told me the opposite

But I Can’t, But I Won’t, But I Want to.

There are so many things I want to say,

but I can’t,

but I won’t,

but I want to.

 

I have questions I need to ask

but I can’t,

but I won’t,

but I want to.

 

I need to get my answers

but I can’t,

but I won’t,

but I want to.

 

I want to stop holding back,

but I can’t,

but I won’t,

but I want to.

 

I wish I could stop biting my tongue,

but I can’t,

but I won’t,

but I want to.

 

I want to end each call with I love you,

but I can’t,

but I won’t

but I want to.

 

I want to tell you how I feel,

but I can’t,

but I won’t

but I want to.

 

I want you to admit how you feel

but you can’t,

but you won’t,

but I want you to.

This Hope

I once had this hope

that maybe my poems

would speak all the words

that I knew I could not;

That the right choice of words

and the right amount of something

that I did not have would be enough

when I knew that I was not;

That maybe the emotions

that I’m constantly holding back

would be felt in my writing

that I knew I could not share.

but I know they are not.

I still have this hope

that maybe someday they will

if  I would only share those poems

with the rest of the world

and not keep them to myself…

yet I know I will not.

 

 

Sometimes…

Sometimes I wish the words for my poems

could flow as smoothly and as enchanting

as the ones in an Ed Sheeran love song.

Sometimes they do.

Sometimes I get caught in the moment

and find myself swept away in the magic

of the feelings I have and the words I type.

Sometimes I read what I write and think

“This is simply perfect.

I’ve captured a small glimpse perhaps

of what I originally intended,

but yet it’s exactly what I meant.”

Sometimes I take a step back and wonder

if the words are truly my own

because I don’t believe that my

lonely, loveless heart could have

produced words full of such awe.

Sometimes I get excited to share these

words crafted by my soul with the world,

but I always remember I can’t.

So while I may wish to enchant the world

with my own lyrics like Ed,

I’ll have to settle with saving

my soul to my file of drafts

full of other hopes waiting for their time

to shine like the light of a thousand stars…

 

 

Dangerous to Dream

It is dangerous to dream

bigger than the moment

you are already living.

It may be easy to dream

of long white curtains

billowing in a warm breeze

or a four-poster bed with

soft pink petals scattered

across bright, white sheets

that are as fresh and as pure as you;

maybe later you’ll be tangled in them

as you watch the sunset

over the ocean out your window

with the love of your life

shortly after you dedicated

your lives to be spent with each other.

Seems simple enough of a dream,

But that can be ripped from you

long before you ever get close

to touching that dream.

So dream simply of small things

like your first margarita

because the odds of someone

shoving that down your throat

against your will

is a lot less likely than other things…

take it from me.