Your Fonder Heart

Sometimes romance and all it's impracticalities feel like a better option than growing up and all it's practicalities. And sometimes you have to create that romance for yourself, and sometimes that is all the reality you need.

I can be as strong as I please, but it only takes effect theoritically. Physics works well with theory, why doesnt the physical?

What if it was all there, laid out in front of you,  But you were so busy wondering about if you  were noticed That you forgot to pay attention. What if it just needs to be asked The right questions, at the right time, instead of being defensive  and offended all the time. What if saying "Thank you for your patience" was bigger than saying "Sorry for being a jerk" What happens when You care more about 'this' than about 'that' Goodness, what if.

I knew I was a nomad from an alarmingly young age. By my eighth birthday, I could pack, clean, and unpack my bedroom in a single weekend, everything having it's own home. It was a great way to spend a summer. At fourteen, my mother saw fringes around my wispy frame and asked, "Child, have you been listening to my Dylan records again?". She tried to deny I was a gypsy when I confronted her as a preteen. My dirty hair, olive skin, green-grey eyes didn't help her convince me. A constant need for change of scenery, of conversation. It didn't take me long to realize how swiftly people became lackluster chores instead of consorts. Maturing into adulthood, I was suspicious of how likeable I seemed to be. Of course, it wasn't me people knew they liked. It was the caricature of myself that is perceived by the general public. That chain smoking alcoholic uncensored thing, somehow not offending anyone. Who wouldn't like someone like that!

Don't even dare You'll ruin it They will fall For your false identity Too in love to question Too naive to know better Total eclipse of the hair, Change nothing. The sugar bowl is empty, Run west. Run west. Run west. Run, Run, Run.

Slip into the dress Slide on the stocking Step into the heels Slap on the face A ghost In a lion mask

I regard you as a poet does a gun; Or a ghost a foggy night. Somewhere in the back; way, way back of my mind - Like unreturned phone calls  or blue-collar Catholic guilt  or the inability to lie to a child - Making coherent decisions will remain remote, uncharted waters. Kettledrummer.