My "Him" Dream

He sees me.
Looking past my imperfections,
he understands that it takes dirt to grow something beautiful.
He connects with the woman I will be,
but never disrespects the journey it took.
He possesses the eyes of a man who believes the outer shell is merely temporary
and that what is inside and unseen makes up the aesthetics of a person.
He recognizes my beauty as one meant to be occupied by me
and that the chance of it resembling commercial beauty is slight.
He handles my intelligence like a delicate piece attained from a menagerie;
He thrives on it with no underlying intimidation.
His intelligence provides him with the mind of a man matured,
gifts him with the idea that one woman is better than many.
He holds the persistence of a winner in his right hand
and the accompanied humility of a loser in the left.
He allows me to embrace his imperfections
and is not afraid to let his heartache spill over the rim of his eyes and out onto the plain of his cheeks, occasionally.
His love for me resembles God's--
Its unconditional nature lightens my darkness and strengthens my weakness.
He is strong for me,
but does not see himself as my savior.
Rather, he looks upon my being as an asset.
His confidence lifts his head,
aligns his shoulders,
and straightens his back.
He is sure of who he is.
He is sure of who I am.
He is sure of what we are together.
He sees me.

The Girl on the Outskirts

She stares at me
Wondering why I don't resemble who I was back then.
She contemplates over what happened
and how I strayed.
She is on the outside looking in
and I have failed to let her in again.
The girl a few years ago could make friends with anyone,
talk to anyone,
laugh at anything.
She contemplates.
She is outside of herself.
She has become a stranger in the same body
acting in ways she never thought would arise.
She is on the outside,
staring through a window wondering why it is so hard to see:
Her character has changed.
Her mind is not the same.
She stares,
wondering how things got so far.
Her eyes ache because they are not windows to the soul--
she cannot see what is going on with the girl trapped behind the haze.
She tries to speak,
but her words are dwindling.
She tries to yell,
but finds herself gasping for air.
The outside girl is no longer a part of the in.
The inside girl has failed to give her life.
As the one resides on the outskirts,
she lives on in memory
knowing she will be
revived to
reality
once again.

Who I am Not

I am not what others want me to be.
I am not the carefully formulated manipulation of others.
My life line is not based on the judgmental nature of others.
I shall not faint.
I shall not die.
I am not what others want me to be.
My life refutes against others'.
My heart beats not on the account of whether a person will or will not like me.
I am not solely the perception of others.
I am His
and He is me.
Myself does not reside behind the shadows of meaningless talk.
My gift does not make me others'.
My legs do not strut down the uneven paths of those who can't quite get it together.
My voice does not make up the pitch of others.
My fine-tuned chords are meant for me.
I will not dance only because another decided to beat his drum.
The thud of my own drum will suffice
and the move of my feet will be on my own terms.
I am not what others want me to be.
I am courageously me.

Maze

We all go through phases
We all travel through mazes
Looking for an end to justify the means
Not as easy as it seems
The journey offers delay
We seek to find a way in
We seek to find a way out
The route not less travelled by,
'Til one day we come to our senses
We dream of recompenses
And never set foot again...

Leech

Sucking the life out of a memory
She has become comfortable there.
Like a crutch
She leans on its every punctuation
Pressing down and holding, hoping she can surpass the end of the line.
Reminiscing is her epithet
It will be the death of her--of other thoughts
There's no room for alternate opportunities.
She has replaced other possibilities with a stump--stubbornly unmoving.
Holding on tight, her fingers cramp from years of recollection.
Easing up on her grasp only slightly, allowing small breaks every now and then
She refuses to believe in dissipation.
Dwindling fractions are sore from the motion of jerking back.
She doesn't know how to let go
She can't understand why she should
She reminds herself of the good days...
Can't let go
Need to breathe
Lest I die of starvation