Lemons seem to be our lot in life, but sometimes I get tired of drinking lemonade. Sometimes I'd much rather have root beer, and no matter how hard I try I just can't seem to make root beer with lemons.

Saturday, November 30, 2013

A More Positive View

Ok, ok. I understand that my previous post was a bit whiny and a bit out of character. The good news is that a few hours after that post I was in a much better mood and I wrote this more positive companion poem for the first one.

An Appropriate Cliche

I want
too many things.
It's easy to be
distracted by that.

As Ms. Austen would say,
a social defect with no cure,
such as selfishness,
must always be forgiven.

I'm not above using a
limpworn phrase to say it.

I want you to be happy.

If taking myself out of the equation accomplishes that,
then I am willing to oblige.

getting angry isn't fair.
an apology is appropriate

Self-reflection somehow results
in humble pie

if I can keep my foot
out of my mouth long enough
to get a bitter taste of
regret and fruit filling
then maybe I'll have time to add:

the best things in life are free,
especially from strings,
and my friendship is definitely one of
the best things in life.

I hope that was a bit reassuring.

The Push Away

It's not like this blog has a specific purpose anyway, but here I go in another random direction. This is a poem. I don't pretend to be a master, but I needed these words to be out there, whether they were read or not.

Get Ready for the Push Away
I can only call this thing
messed up
so many times.
Passive aggressive, I know,
but I'm walking away.
I know you won't follow,
but nothing less than being 
locked out
will make you
want in.

We've spoken
We've laughed
We've shared
everything adds up.

But you won't do the math

Not that it should be math...

Like Elizabeth Browning, I'm not sure love can or should be quantified.

Love doesn't run out anyway,
because it's not like a 
shampoo bottle
that you use
until it's

It's like an empty book
that you fill with words and
images. You can close it, but you 
never run out of pages, you never run out...

So, how do I love you?
As far as the distance to your door.
Any further is more than you want.

Choosing to end it, choosing to close the book,
makes it finite, measurable, quantifiable.

Oh, look! I guess I quantified it in the end.

Not light-hearted, I know, but I was feeling a bit inspired. I suppose my habit of running away came in handy for something. Ummm... something less angsty next time, I promise.