My thoughts, My guts spilled out to you, My place to freely speak, Mine, all Mine.
Where are you now, my love?
Snuggled deep in your bed, covered and such,
Sleeping soundly, not a noise to be heard
The world leaving you undisturbed?
I imagine you’re sleeping,
For what else would you do?
All alone, no one else with you
This late at night there’s nought to think of
I doubt anything you’ll even dream of
It’s midnight, where are you now,
I think people are so bored, they organize the children, and then try to hook everyone else on it. And the poor kids have no time left to just lie on their beds and daydream.
The Feminine Mystique
She thought she heard his voice
Her head whipped around to face him
Her heart skipped a beat and her eyes were wild
Then she saw who had spoken
It wasn’t him
I watched her look around
She was obviously waiting for someone
Was it a lover or a friend?
Was she nervous?
I couldn’t tell.
She kept fidgeting with her phone,
Glancing at everyone who walked by,
Flinching every time a door opened
But everyone has their dark days
Their times of trouble
When life keeps kicking you, even though you’re already down
I don’t want to burden those I love with my dark days.
They have plenty of their own.
I don’t want pity or sympathy,
I want empathy and understanding if they can be found
But if not I must have some sort of outlet
So I write.
I write happy things too,
Mostly in my head.
They don’t usually make it to paper because they happen in bursts when I’m really enjoying life.
I don’t mean to sound like a Debbie Downer with my writings,
That is not what I seek.
I seek an outlet until I find someone who understands and cares
His eyes… just… I think if he stared at me long enough it would dissolve my pants.
I want him to think I’m pretty, not just tell me that I am, but really believe it.
I don’t think anyone knows that I struggle with this.
I want him to believe I’m beautiful, because maybe then I can really believe it too.
I want him to think I have a beautiful voice. I want him to want to hear me sing.
I love to sing.
But no one has ever loved to hear me.
No one has ever told me I’m ugly and no one has ever told me outright that I don’t have a good voice. But there have been enough occasions to slowly, bit by bit, shut me down.
I’m not comfortable in my own skin. I’m not okay with how I look because of the pressure to look different.
I’m not comfortable with my voice. I don’t like to sing around other people because I’m quickly hushed and outshined.
Brushed under the rug. Hidden in the shadows. I’m average. There is nothing remarkable about me.
I just want someone to think I’m special.