Pleased To Meet You

Allow me to introduce myself,
as aloof and misconstrued
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I search for the right way
to be as aberrant, yet as conventional
as I know myself to be.
Forgive my biting directness,
for I've only tried to show you
that I'm not as predictable as I seem.
See, you've thrown me off,
with your ability to read me
before I've even penned the words
to define my own emotion.
It's hardly fair.
I fight to stay one step ahead,
when I know I've been behind all along,
and you're fully aware, 
and I'm terrible at whatever this is,
but I'm a willing student.
So allow me to introduce myself,
as simple-hearted and deliberate,
within your eyes and your eyes only,
as I learn the right way
to be as honest and lovely
as I know myself to be.

My name's Lena.

Arteries

If I could fold you up
like a square piece of paper
and put you in my pocket,
and keep you there forever,
I would never miss you
never struggle against you
or lose you.
I could bend you
to my less-than-divine will
and tear you up
whenever I was unhappy
and I could have complete--
complete control.
I would possess the power
to drop you in the trash,
tear you to pieces,
or fold you up into an airplane
and send you on your way.
But no,
you could never be that bendable,
never be that dispensable,
never be that two-dimensional.
You must be essential
inhabiting my soul
in ways I can't predict or manipulate
rising up like my breath,
keeping time like my heart,
arteries filled with you,
unseen through my skin,
but necessary for my survival.

You're essential.

Dandelions Are Not Flowers

These misconceptions are rather lovely this time of year, 
and I am content to lay in these fields filled with your broken spirt. 
Your eyes pass over me, as if I am not even laying here, 
and I think its so painfully wonderful, 
that this happens everytime I find myself in this place. 
Every time, I say to much, reveal to much, 
and I am left to soak in my own scorn, 
cheeks hot from the embarassment. 
Allow me to introduce myself, 
I am the one person you will never expect,
the one person you will be able to pick out of any crowd, 
so misfited, so foreign. 

Shut up silent wind, 
shut up. 

I am quite aware of my fate, aware of this predestiny, 
so why must you remind me so mockingly?
These flowers are like fools gold,
the colour of a mid-day sun, 
standing tall in their glory, 
yet these flowers are nothing but weeds in the garden, 
taking up the life of the beautiful. 
Am I just a dandelion? Eating the life of the beautiful?
Dandelions are not flowers. 

Shut up silent wind, 
Shut up.

Seconds

This is another poem from one of my old poetry books. I wanted to post this one because it's so different from how I write now, yet I still love this kind of writing. Again, let me know what you think ! 


No vacancy, 
no place, no room, 
empty, yet full, 
turned away, like every other time. 
Lights off, dark halls, 
empty graves, hollow words, 
desolate, a place to call home, 
among the homeless and the fatherless; 
rest in peace. 
Far across from the corners of this emptiness, 
drawn from the black rivers, 
hung from the dead branches, 
are pieces of the puzzle, 
out of reach, undiscovered. 
Names and dates, 
faces and answers, 
fleeting. 
Ever so fleeting. 
Just like the time, 
now, now, now, now, now, 
You've failed me now. 
And now. 
fleeting...
and now. 

Davy Jones

Reconciling you
with the you you used to be
has become my only task.
My heart fills to the brim
with confusion, with thoughts
and my eyes see what they want
and my ears hear what they need to,
while my heart feels
everything, simultaneously.
My mouth doesn't want to talk
my mind doesn't want to think,
and my heart doesn't want to feel.

Yet I harbour this ship,
constantly sitting in my port,
carrying everything I've had,
along with everything I've lost,
with no hope of leaving,
but yet it's never really here.
A captain who can't decide
and I, as uncertain as the tide,
unable to hide the emotions
from our sea-worn faces.
We are drifting here,
through storm and calm,
just drifting here.

We have no other choice.

Playing God

I have adopted

whatever looks similar 

to a concrete conclusion, 

because answers, 

no matter how inaccurate, 

are better than nothing. 

Right?

You have played this out
like a mad-libs game,
with "insert the name of God"
written under every blank space.
Because that's the only way
you can make sense of things.
Right?

And I have written

my own ending 

to this never-ending-story, 

because you already have, 

and I think it's only fair 

that I get the last word.

Right?

Wrong. 

Because we have both failed

in our attempt to be wise, 

to realize that we don't know the end. 

And you can say that you do 

until the cows and the pigs fly, 

but you don't. 

I'm sorry but you just don't. 

I Know I'll Repent of This in The Morning...

I have nothing more to say,
than this:

You saw my heart,
You knew my emotions,
You let them develop,
then you took it all away.
You've broken me,
to a point of confusion,
and I can't see You
or hear You
and I want You to know
that I'm not impressed.

You saw my fleece
and my honest cries
and you stomped all over it.
You saw us on the altar,
and our offering up to you,
and you provided no lamb.

In my anger,
I have nothing more to say than this.

In A Good Way

You ask me what I'm looking at.

I ask you the same question, 

every time your eyes focus in on mine, 

and I feel at home, yet so lost. 

"Lost," I promise you, 

"in a good way". 

RSVP

You look like
              someone just shot your puppy,
with eyes that are sad and droopy
              and your movements that seem so pained.

You're not angry yet
              but something tells me you will be.
Sooner or later, anger just becomes easy;
              easier than holding on, easier than letting go.

Tell me what it feels like
              to douse your heart in so much emotion,
that all you can do is walk around apathetic
              because to feel would be too much for you to handle.

You know,
             for someone as smart as you seem to be
you're really thick sometimes,
             because the only one you have to blame
is yourself.
          

You Never Learn

You never learn your lesson.
Making the same mistakes,
Taking the same missteps,
Leading you down the same paths.

You grieve once you hit the wall,
but you overlook your own folly,
that brings you there every time.

And you call yourself careful,
and you call yourself wise,
but I witness none of these things.

You're playing the same game,
spinning the same web,
trying to catch something,
only to throw it away.

You never learn your lesson.
Or maybe it's me that never learns. . .