Green Button

I make up reasons
to dial his number,
to say that I'm sorry,
or just to say goodbye,
so I can justify
this stupid decision
to myself once I've hung up
and thought it through.
I'll claim good intentions,
when really,
I just wanted to feel
close, wanted, and loved again.
I have no good intentions,
just selfish wishes
to rewind the time
for a few minutes.
Truth is,
I don't want to go back,
I don't want to restart,
I just want to feel that way
one more time.
And there's nothing in the world
that can make that okay,
and nothing I can tell myself
to ease my conscience.
So before I pick up the phone
and press that Green button
I think of what I'm doing
and who I'm doing it to.

I put the phone on the cradle,
and step away.

Ask

I guess there's no point
in expecting to live a dream
when nothing ever really
comes close.
And I guess there's no point
in hoping for the best,
because hopes and expectations
always fall through.
But I tried my best,
to harness some courage
to see what I could see
in you.
I never accounted for
the fact that it is necessary
for you look for me
too.
I guess there's no point
in telling someone about yourself
if they never even ask
how you're doing.

I Conclude (For Now...)

I conclude, 

to try my damnedest 

to work this out 

on my own. 

Without even 

opening my mouth 

to ask you 

for help. 

You see, 

I'm such a coward

and a little self-concious, 

because losing you 

in any way 

would be devastating. 

I'm sorry. 

Summer Dreams

I had dreams
of catching bugs in jars
on weeknights, after work
and mapping stars
and telling each other their stories
while drinking cheap wine
because at least it's classier
than drinking cheap beer.
Dreams, of day trips
and late nights
writing delicate words
and catchy melodies
after watching Molly and the gang,
and nursing hand cramps
induced by video game controllers.
Dreams that were dreamt
with you in mind,
(obviously)
and now I can't bring myself
to fulfill them single handedly,
so I aimlessly search
for my dream four-leaf-clover
to bring me some hope
that things will turn around.
But for now all I dream
about are the things you do
without me,
because I have no courage
and no perfect words
to tell you that
I don't want to catch fireflies
with anyone else but you.

Make That 41

I've got a collection
of half-pages
maybe even 3-quarter-pages,
addressed to you.
I swear I must have 40 or more.
I start the same way,
with something funny,
hoping to get you smiling,
and then I start from the beginning.
I try to describe
what's been going on
and why I haven't told you before,
and what exactly my heart feels.
I try to be sweet,
I try to be poetic,
I try to say something
that won't sound ridiculous.
And it's when I get
to a certain point
that I read it all over,
judging every word,
erasing and rewriting,
trying to craft the perfect way
to say that

Who He Says I Am

I'm one of those people,
who thinks things through
and then thinks them again,
picking apart each word,
each motive behind each word,
along with every tone,
ups and downs in voices
to piece together some knowledge
about something that's likely
not even there.
I take that "based on nothing" knowledge
and stir it around in my little head,
imposing it on myself
like a doctor, writing a prescription
until it takes over.
And it's only when I realize
that this little seed has been planted
for no reason at all,
that I try to uproot it
to replace it with truth.
But it's like trying to reattach
a lock of hair, after its been cut;
there is no sure way of undoing it.
If only I realized
that I am who I am
totally aside from any one else's
words, thoughts, feelings, experiences,
and saw truth
in who He says I am.

I will long to see the truth,
in who He says I am.

Keys

Dear You,

Often I worry, that this old house
is too big for you to find me in,
and that you'll give up
for an easier venture,
rather than pursuing after me.

And sometimes I worry
that the windows of my history
that still remain open
will cause too much of a draft
for you to be happy here.

Will my love letters,
and my loyal devotion
be enough for a man
who will see all my brokenness,
and who know my every fear?

Will the rooms be big enough
for you to feel at home,
inside this old house of a heart,
that I've invited you into,
not to visit, but to live?

Will you see my haunting memories
as heavy bags to carry,
or beautiful stories
of victories much bigger than myself,
that you are privileged to share?

Oh I must believe,
that you will find me,
and find me lovely.
And I will find you worthy
of a set of keys

to this heart.

Love, Me.

Mental Anguish

Anguish, like having what you want
right at your finger tips,
yet having no way to take hold of it,
is pulsing through my body.
It takes over my senses,
latching onto my blood cells,
stealing my deep breath,
tainting my innocent laughter,
weakening my limbs,
colouring my skin,
and it makes me mental.

Mental.