All these adjectives,
Used to describe,
A somewhat subjective
Notion to prescribe.

We draw upon words,
That we use to define,
Like normal or weird,
Ordinary or divine.

And then I see,
The things you know,
Are not the same as me,
Not even close.

But the words I used,
That glittered like stars,
Those to describe you,
Are that which you are.


I’ve been me for a while now,
Somewhere over seventeen years,
Yet I feel that somehow,
There’s something not yet clear.

I don’t seek to hurt a soul,
Nor do I wish for bad blood,
With anyone who had a role
In anything I have done.

What I will mention,
There are just many things,
That take my attention,
From any and every thing.

But if they wonder why,
With ease I walk away,
Because after the day I die,
I’m alone in my grave.

But I’m not conceited,
And not self centred,
But when the interest retreated,
So did all my concern.

Wanting the Never Wanted

I’ve been here before,
Many times, and more,
So many times in fact,
It feels like another chore.

Hopefully, someday close,
Or before my final atonement,
I’ll attain the thing i want most,
And not what’s best at the moment.

Perhaps it is a curse on my name,
For while I wait on the one
That takes my breath away,
Another makes her claim.

As is the hand i stretch out,
Gets rejected by hers,
Only to fall into the hand
That belongs to another.

I know I will never get what I want,
No matter how hard I try,
And I’m not trying to be greedy,
I just want to be satisfied.


I’m losing pace,
Can’t keep track,
Of the things I trace,
Or the things I lack.
My sight then fades,
Slowly to black,
And I somehow trade
Persistence for slack.

Maybe today,
Or maybe not,
Maybe I’ll play,
A little or a lot.
But I know I’ll stay,
Where it’s not hot,
Avoiding the blaze,
From inside the pot.