You'll meet her, she's very pretty,
Even though sometimes she's sad for many days at a time.
You'll see, when she smiles, you'll love her.
- Pan's Labyrinth
I'm honey and thorns,
Firmly rooted in a bed of home-grown hopefulness.
I'm the faulty bolt of a bigger machine,
Well-oiled and methodical.
I'm stitched together with awestruck wonder and good intentions,
Flawed in all the right places.
Marred with all the marks of a writer --
The restlessness, the incessant curiosities,
The scribble-laden notebooks --
Yet, I get by.
I guzzle coffee like it's water,
Coursing through my veins in a wave of piping hot life support,
And I shake.
I drink until I shake,
Just so I feel.
I refuse to believe that humanity is mainly comprised of monsters,
Although some may argue otherwise.
'An idealist to a fault;'
I've heard it a thousand times over, now.
I'm magnetized to the flawed, broken,
All it takes is one glance to sense a Mariana's Trench
Between one's head and heart.
I don't know why.
Eras are distinctly divided into before and afters,
Of tender kisses, thoughtful words,
The things I remember that no one does.
Years are frivolous now.
I have a knack for saying all the right things
At all the wrong times.
And eating dessert first,
'Just in case.'
A bundle of anomalies, optimism
The heart will thaw out when a warm hand wraps around it,