My thoughts are mine, but they don’t cost a dime to rhyme them.
My thoughts are spaghetti noodles jumbled up in a big bowl. Squishy, twirly, yucky, delightful noodles.
Because they’re mine. And I don’t have to give them to you at all. And you can’t make me dehydrate them neatly and put them into a cardboard box,
but I’ll do that for myself.
If you want you can come look at and hold them, but be careful not to break them. Because then they won’t be the same.
It’s that moment sitting there on the couch when I’m bouncing my baby up and down till my backside’s muscles hurt.
She’ll start to squirm and fuss so I’ll bounce again although I’m getting sore wishing I was not bouncing anymore.
It’s the boredom of sitting there bouncing- not doing anything else, the breeze waddling through the open patio door.
And then I stop moving and realize she must have fallen asleep. I hear the cars driving outside and realize I don’t really want to drive anywhere.
I sat there and held her while I listened to the cars and the neighbor’s AC discovering for the 20th time today how much I love her. And it really doesn’t get much simpler than that.
Embracing change will make you mighty,
So let your face go wrinkly.
Grow your baby belly taut,
Then watch it shrink down forever soft.
Smile and nod as your childish body walks away.
Laugh and believe it, cus it’ll happen anyway.
Who you were will forever remain.
What’s done is done, for pride or shame.
Let your hair stay wet for awhile.
Watch it dry sideways and wild.
Sit down and watch your thoughts fly by
in the shadows on the walls.
Turn off the blinking lights. Don’t panic.
I have a story in my heart
That I supppose I ought to tell.
But who would really listen
To a little ringing bell?
No one cares too much, I think,
About a stranger’s heart.
I don’t know you, or you me,
But at least we have a start.
I’m afraid to fill the page up,
But I won’t stop drawing either.
I’ll draw as tiny as I can
To hide my inhibitions.
And when I squint to see the ink
That’s gotten so much smaller,
I’ll see there’s nothing worse than that
Of trying far too little.
What’s stopping me from being large,
from putting paint to canvas?
The paint’s far too bright, their brows will furl;
They won’t understand the colors.
Some eyes will be closed, but it won’t be mine.
They’ll be open with gladness and wonder
For having the courage to draw large and see
That what I see is me.