Somehow I find it graspable
That maybe I could be okay
And not be
The message is quite common
That perfection is impossible,
And you don’t need to achieve it.
But somehow not
For me.
It feels sort of like
I drew the short straw,
So I’m the one who ended up believing in
Not only as a possibility, but as an
A special one.
Just for me.
And it’s hard-
Trying to do the ‘impossible’,
Crying when you can’t.
But not today.
Somehow, I always knew it wasn’t maintainable,
Long term – a childish game.
So why not now to outgrow it?
Why not now to learn how not to be
I choose today.
Changing all the time,
-yet we think it a constant.
I am not now, who I was as a child.
I hope I’ve grown,
And will continue to do so.
In many ways I am not nearly the same.
But, is that identity?
All the ins and outs – the surface of the water?
Or is there something more,
The depth below the surface, so to speak
-The subconscious?
And anyways, does it really matter?
I mean,
Does anybody really know
Who they are?
Who am I?
I know the logistics
-name, age, etcetera.
But it is not enough.
Who am I?
I feel vaguely disappointed for no apparent reason
-save for all the things I wanted to do, be, become
That I had no time for.
I have been far too busy.
I am young, I have time to change.
But will I?
It seems impossible.
And yet, I have changed so far,
Have I not?
I can no longer lay claim to my younger selves.
Ah, but was that change, or growth?
And which is this?
Perhaps I am simply growing tired.
Who knows?
But, please, when will this feeling go away?
When will I learn to stop chasing
Perfect illusions
And just find time for
People are so
Mystical, divine beings
-each unique
In a way
And all the same.
You never know,
Who someone is.
You can learn them,
Their energy, personality
But we change.
One moment to the next
Is all it takes:
In motion.
And you wonder,
If you ever really knew me
At all
Or if there was ever really a ‘me’ to know
Tumbling through files,
And things long unread –
Some neat, clean, immaculate;
Far more messy scribbles on torn pages.
But no matter.
-I can still read them,
Those ancient musings
As though from another time.
Was that me?
What was I thinking?
A stranger stares out from old words,
The resemblance long lost in the years.
A wonder, suddenly.
At the beauty that is forgetting,
And discovering again.
Perceptions are off
Nothing is real
But isn’t that the fun part?
What would life be if we really knew
Who we were?


Who are you?
I see you, there
But I do not know you
-A stranger to me.
You have your own life,
Your own world
And I am a stranger to it
And to you.
Who knows what this means?
One – seemingly random –
Experience in a multitude
As two lives touch
-only for an instant
And move along

African Queen
Note: This is about my cat, Cleo
She lay there on the bed,
Soft fur black and brown
Stretch soft, half asleep
All she needs is a crown

Two half opened eyes
Lazy and green
Show me a vision
Of an African queen

Steady but strong;
Unafraid of her world
A battle cry sounds
And the arrows are hurled

Who are you, my princess?
My African queen?
Her eyes hint at smiles
And more worlds yet unseen

Don’t you sometimes get that feeling
That, just for a moment
It would be nice to not have to care?
To only be who you are
And only care because you care.
School, friends, society-
Let them think what they will
They’re apt to anyways.
I often think how nice it’d be
To escape all the pressure
Of being someone for everyone
And to just, for a moment
Just be me

Every now and then
I want to surprise them
I’d like them to think,
“Is that really her?”
Like the fictional girl
Who appears such a princess
I want them to see past
That meticulous construct
So carefully crafted
That they all call