The World is Your Oyster

The time has come

I must speak of this one thing:

I wish ever so dearly for red high heels,

Life is meant to be lived away from the harbor

Nostalgia comes in the form of typewriters and sealing wax

I hate both cauliflower as well as cabbages

I am appalled by the contrast of rags and the riches of Kings

I am not denying the possibility of a sea gone a broil

Or the account of little pigs with wings.

Yet it is none of these things which I wish to say

I only wish to comment once more

Of my undeniable favorite parts of the day:

Early in the morning, around 6 and late, late at night, around 12.

It is in the surrounding hours that I seem to work best.

I could do without the meaningless 8-5,

Filled with scanning and phone calls and time wasted.

There is life to be lived out there, my friend,

And it is up to us to take it.

The shout into the void

I am the favorite lines from your favorite movies.

I am the bubbly flirty girl you remember from high school.

I am the quite ponderer, the ever thinking brain

I am the passive aggressive girlfriends

I am the writer who loves to read more than write.

I am the writer who must write due to all the birds in my head.

I am the crazy atypical writer who is probably bipolar.

I am Bee from Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; confident like crazy

I am Bee from the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants; quietly broken.

I am a bright young woman, sick of swimming, ready to stand.

I am a five year old who wishes to be a mermaid.

I am the loved and adored; I am the rejected and the ignored.

How intriguing it is that only 104.6 lbs of me contains all of these thoughts and feelings simultaneously.

Dynamic Changes of Leaving

I greatly admire birds, as my posts suggest. I often visualize myself as a bird chained to a specific spot, unable to spread her beautiful wings and leave as gracefully as she came. The thing with birds my romantic view refuses to think about is the fact that while they are free to come and go, they hardly ever stay. The constant shift in coming and going means no connections, no personal ties forever. While in a way this sounds appealing, it only sounds appealing in the idealist sense. I have made ties and to break away and leave would mean to completely abandon it all and migrate away to someplace new, with it’s own chains and cages ready to trap me again. Is that really what I want? In some relationships, yes. I cannot wait to leave in some instances. Yet the pragmatist in me can’t help but realize that leaving is not as freeing as it seems to be. One cannot just leave because they believe someplace else will be better, prettier, bolder, and bigger. While I still imagine my wings coming out and my confidence shining as I go to make something of myself, I will not sit by and use the future as an escape from the present. When I stop staring at clouds and daydreaming of places and things and people I’ve never met or seen, I find my home in people here and now. I find my joy in the smallest places and things and people. So yes, I am bird ready to fly away, but for now I guess I’ll be content to stay.

Best of Both Worlds

On the very brink of reality,

Hanging on the edge of safety,

Tweet, tweet, tweeting up, up high,

The in and out breaths, the deep sigh,

To jump or hop back to the nest?

To fly and be free, or to be safe, called the best?

Either way I take a risk as a small little bird, a baby,

I never asked you to be my superman, to try and save me,

Yet here you are, coming to my rescue, holding tightly,

I used to shy away and run from this, seemingly brightly,

But somehow I’ve changed and become okay with being saved,

I’m tired of running in this infinity circle; sick of being chased.

I was under the impression if you were committed, you had lost,

I suppose my mind’s been changed, or maybe I’ve gone soft.

I used to believe a lot of things, yet they seem not to apply,

You’ve both freed this bird and made her say hello instead of bye,

I no longer feel like a loser for being committed, it just can’t be true.

I guess the truth is I’m only okay with ‘losing’ if losing means winning you.

Locked Up

You watch me walk and dance and laugh, thinking how lovely and free

Every person seems so until you dig a little, until you really see,

I can’t be called lovely for I’m always thrown underneath the bus,

And truly I tell you, I can’t be free, for we carry our prisons with us.