Teenage love,
Is a sensation,
Filled with irrationality,
And temptation.

No way on earth,
Am I romantic,
Nor am I "in love,"
But I have become frantic.

I told this one guy,
That I might . . . you know,
And the fact I won't say it,
Just goes to show . . .

The awkwardness I felt,
Telling a guy, friends for a year,
And being friend-zoned twice,
By someone I hold dear.

It wasn't easy,
Not even in the slight,
And the conversation ended,
With him saying goodnight.

I tread on broken glass
And see the past in its reflection
Thousands of twisted faces
A stranger in every section.
Memories better off forgotten
Cold and distant and blue
Yet the constant in the chaos
Is the blurry, dizzy truth.
I'm the monster
I'm the stranger
In every silver piece,
But the monster
And the stranger
She just isn't me.
Only I could have changed
The reflections that I saw
But what was in those mirrors
Wasn't myself at all.

I’m tallying the days
How many more
Until I see you again
But I don’t know what I’m counting for
I wrote you a note
I hid it in plain sight
It’s been waiting for awhile
Hidden away from the light
I know you led me on
Before you saw my left hand
Many months have passed
And these feelings still stand
I never saw your ring
I guess that’s no excuse
I’m about to be married
But your eyes made me an offer my heart could not refuse

Several poets have told me
That I wear the wrong hat;
I should be a journalist
And let it go at that.

That I should write who-what-when-where
And put it out as news
And turn my eye to everyday
And pay the newsman’s dues.

I can’t put my quill pen down
And give up making rhyme.
I have vistas in my soul
That snare me every time.

Though I dance among the fairies
My words create brick walls
Devoid of hollyhocks and lace
When answering the calls

That urge me to take pen in hand
And share what moves my heart.
The need to see reality
Will doom me from the start.

I won’t wear a reporter’s hat
The double yous can rot.
I’ll keep searching for the elves
Whether finding them or not.
ljm

the window to your soul has
shattered
into millions of razor sharp shards
and when I reach out to touch you,
the real you,
I cut myself on the pieces
each sliver tracing angry, red lines
across my flesh.

I draw my hand back.

The wounds stay.