Poetry

I am the girl who cries when she fails to be perfect,
The one who laughs at her humiliating moments.
The kindling for the fire of new ideas on paper,
The Sinner and the Saved,
The damned and well behaved.
I’m the girl who hates trendy clothes,
And the judgmental woman with a ready snub and a turned up nose.
I am the laughter at one to many Tequila shots;
And the tired, exhausted and overwhelmed child.
I’m the tears of grief,
The giggly heart with much belief in all things bright and beautiful—
And the foolish romantic of olden days long ago.
I’m the young woman of a generation filled with rich Damsels with no distress to speak of
I’m the spender of money with no particular clothing I’m fond of.
I lack pure genius but try to use wit to undermine my bad attempts at humor.
The internal melancholy surfaces from time to time.
I must master it with out foregoing to its grip.
At times I fail.
I have slapped life’s trials in the face and been slapped right back.
I am unwilling to fall to my adversities; and yet, I still tumble from time to time on the trampoline of diversities to numerous to count.
I’ am me.