I don't know when I wrote this or which person it was about, but I kind of like it and am glad I found it.

Instructions

When I leave,
just wave goodbye
and close the door.
Don't kiss my forehead
and reminisce about
what was said.

Don't say you'll call,
because all you ever
do it watch me fall.

And I fall hard.
I defy all laws
of gravity
and physics.

I fall real hard,
and bruise
like a peach.

Don't ask me to stay
for breakfast.
Hold your tongue.

Just break fast.

I only want breakfast
if it will become a ritual.

Maybe I’m just a romantic
Who should have been born
In another time:
When time meant more
Than fulfilling lustful
Fantasy, and apathy
Was not the norm.
When soldier boys would
Send letters to their
waiting girls back home:
Writing of their love for them,
And their yearning to embrace
And hold them in their arms;
Not to de-lace and devour them.
When kids dreamed of true love
And did not know what their
Celebrities looked like naked.
When calendars were
Actually used for dates
And magazines were
Actually read for news.
[When boyfriends would not
Suggest you fantasize
of other men, but would
instead be disgusted by
by even the thought of it.]

I found some random scraps of scribbles and words; this is my reminder to do something with them.

I've come to a conclusion
concerning this confusion
of myself and who I am
and where I stand.

I believe
it will never
cease.

My heart will spill,
and the pages will fill,
but there will be no end.

I vow to maintain
a climax
not a life played
in imax,
but lived to
the max.

And it's not a blow
to know
that I'll never
understand myself,
who I am and
what I want;

but I'm done
with the front
and I've learned
to be a little
more blunt.

I don't want the
life of a book,
even if I must
remain shook.

I don't want a
limiting plot.

Not knowing myself
keeps me on
my toes,
and who knows
who I'll become,
what I'll see,
what life will be.

Yesterday.
I feared a life
could be carried
within me.

Today.
I'm relieved
that I was
wrong.


(whoooops)

Dear Love,

I wish that I could
write for you
as often as
I used to
write of less
important things.

But I'm not very
good with this
optimistic
point of view.

The vocabulary of
romantic poetry
is lost on me.

I do not know
the words to use
or how to fuse
them in ways
that would
express how I feel
and still read
and sound real.