Wednesday, January 6, 2010

..Are you just like me?

Verily I try though with equal strength I prevent;
Always am I left unfilled.
Could you be one who might adore me?
As friend, even.. I care not..
Now surely you shall tell to me that I have insulted us both:
To insinuate a chance is demeaning to both the accused and the accuser.

Oh, self, how foolish you are.

How long shall I play to myself a twisted reality in which I am the damsel, forever in distress, but visible to few? How many times shall I act out the part of a girl to be rescued by some man who (seems) to share a common soul with you? I.. I want to "like," I know it. But I take things too far. I like too much or not at all (just as Sylvia Plath did while she lived), and if I sense the smallest of an inch.. Do I not take a mile? Do I not project sentiments and motives onto unsuspecting, average people?...

I.. I found a dream again. Time will destroy it, I am sure. My inability to attract shall assure it is so- no chase shall be run for me.. Ever.

Yet still..

1 comment:

Marvin the Martian said...

The young think too much, analyze too much. They presume motivations where none exist; ascribe meaning where there is only random chaos.

Age and weariness lends one the freedom not to care so much. And then one can find love and enjoy it for what it is, not for what it might be (and inevitably is not).