Poet Girl.

I start to get hungry to see a new picture of you.
I've memorized every one I've got.
The list of poetic one-liners I've typed in my head
are growing into a quote book,
quips and, honestly, slightly quirky little thoughts
I think Death Cab for Cutie might like,
if they still made new music.

I trip on my own toes,
and my own heart that thumps against my chest.
I'm nervous to be estranged from my old familiar;
it makes my mouth dry and my fingers go cold.
I can't turn off the acoustic guitar
that strums in the background of my life these days.
Some unknown guy sings my life in my head,
one of those voices that kind of shuffles
and meanders 'cos he's a hippie and comfortable
in his own flannel shirt and sense of artistic self.

My life is sketch pencils and too many pillows on my bed,
the girl who wears five colours at a time,
and startles herself with the dreams she wakes from,
remembering them every morning.
They either find his lips on hers or a crazy fight on the phone.
Either way, they're shocking when the real world is very
singular: a loner's life stitching quilts from past experiences
that tuck me in every single night.

I have too many scarves hanging on the back of my door,
one around my milk white neck, and still a dozen more in the store
waiting for me to fall in love with them.
I've got a dozen thoughts about plane tickets,
and writing my first book, and the pile of Scriptures I've been
contemplating lining my life up, row by row,
laying a form to stretch the canvas of me over.
I like the easy-going sense of Being I have,
lying in my bed, or staring up at Christmas lights,
or sticking my fingers in the snow just to
know that I'm alive.

I used to only picture walking sidewalks with an arm
linked with mine, but now I carry piles of books and
it's all right. My nose goes numb, the snow glow the only
colour this girl ever gets; cold rushing against my face.
I have pictures of a little boy and girl in my head,
scruffy sneakers, and some sort of summer tryst,
where it's Bridge to Terebithia--
magic that can leave one crying.
They say anything good never lasts.
That's not so. The best kind of Good keeps on playing
in every step you take, tough love that said it would fight you
if you beat yourself up one more time.
And that's when you know,
you can never lose the best friend you ever had,
even if you are the fastest runner in the fifth grade.

I've got this sense of satisfaction,
one that puts an upbeat in my theme song;
I'm doin' all right, with question marks dangling over my head
and no sense of perfect direction.
You know I get lost on my own street; I forget what I'm saying;
I laugh in the middle of a serious conversation.
But I'm learning myself.
I sit cross-legged with a dictionary open,
my cuppa tea forgotten, my ring spinnin' on my skinny finger,
memorizing the definition of Me.


December 20, 2009