“Just Perfect”.

Not a poem, but a story, #2 in the short line of them. The repetition is not meant to be lyrics, or lines of poetic wit — it’s something I wrote, something extra hard for me, and I wanted to share.

This one’s it, folks.

  “Just Perfect”

You are perfect
God you seem so perfect
You are perfect for me. 

We were a match made with wit and games,
an erotic display of knowledge
with more than a bit of struggle for power.
And in the end
you made love to college, and you fell for her,
and I stay here in my lonely skin.

You were perfect
God you seemed so perfect
I was reluctant to see.
– – –

You are perfect
God you seem so perfect
You are perfect for me. 

I never thought I’d be involved
with such an exotic sense of humor.
Music connected us across oceans,
and your smile kept us awake.
And in the end
you wanted to wait,
and I stay here in my lonely skin.

You were perfect
God you seemed so perfect
I was reluctant to see.
– – –

You are perfect
God you seem so perfect
You are perfect for me. 

You claimed the first brush of my lips
and to you I held the fastest.
Words were said, and things exchanged,
and I let myself believe it.
And in the end
there were things you couldn’t handle,
distance and bridges so far,
and so I stay here in my lonely skin. 

You were perfect
God you seemed so perfect
I was reluctant to see.
– – –

Fin.

Disappointed

To whom it may concern.

How susceptible teenagers are to heartache! Some guys, and some girls too, just don’t know their own strength. They don’t know how much they effect you — or how easily their words can tear at your hide. At my hide. At what I thought was my heart.  I’ve wanted to make a post here for quite a while, but I couldn’t bear it. As angry, as sad and DISAPPOINTED I was, I fought against letting you see it. I allowed myself to feel something for someone who was real, who was right here at my hand or in my arms, and it was all just a disappointment. A final letdown, proving to me what I always thought before. I am not worth another’s love, that word rolls off my tongue with a sickening thud, or at least not his. It’s all shit, with a motherfuckload of excuses, and I’m tired of thinking about, dreaming about it, wondering whether I should believe what I’m told, or what I fear is the reason for his neglect. My friends act shocked — ‘You spoke so highly of him!’ ‘He sounded like such a nice guy….’ — coupled with sad frowns and pitiful eyes, as they go home at night to their beloved boys. No one is perfect, neither he nor I nor our “unfortunate situation”, but fuck, why does it all have to happen now? Why couldn’t this one thing just work out and prove me wrong. < It’s not a question, just frustrated observation.

I am someone who keeps emails and text messages, and replays sweet whispers over and over in my head until they lose their meaning, wordpress you know this. But I’ve since recorded in detail what I remember, and then I made myself forget it. The record I still own, but I’m trying to forget, and so scared to forget in the same instant. I’m scared that if I ever saw or talked to him again that I would feel that want to get to know you again sensation as I did with David, and Raph.

But this is different, he is different, because he was right fucking here, in Georgia, a mere hour away, and still he made a choice not to see me. Because he didn’t want to, excuses be damned. My mom always says, you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip. It’s not going to happen, no matter how much you force it or will it to produce that way. So the feelings, emotions, and immature actions of another, I cannot control. Be happy, having dinner with ex’s and making plans with friends, and one day I’ll be happy too. With someone else, somewhere else, far from this hurt and these stupid, wonderful fucking memories.

Cupid falls, and the only rises.

So much has happened since my last post; it’s all very insane, really, but I’ve been thriving on insanity for months now, so it will be nothing new to you all.

In all my life, through the myriad of self-serving boys and county rednecks, I have never really found a boy for me my age who had the delicate mix of cynicism, dedication, and spirit. But through the art that is omgpop ;), I did meet a man who maintains that balance. He is not “my” man, my boyfriend, or anything along those defined terms; well at least not yet. It is very, very complicated — and so simple, in the same breath.

After what seems like a lifetime of lusting after the “boy” I’ve made references to in my countless romantic poems, I found someone who might actually give a little of the of affection back. It’s like kindred spirits, or some cheesy shit like that. But he is real, and he doesn’t make me sad, and doesn’t cling to me like Saranwrap. But the affection, dare I say the emotion that I feel radiating from him makes my head spin in all the delicious, right ways. But if you’d lived a lifetime in Southern exile, you might feel the same way.

I think what is best about the…relationship? friendship? Whatever you might call it…. is that we have been able to make this all work without molding to one another. “Molding” is a term we use; it means that we didn’t have to change ourselves, even in little ways, to fit together right. If he likes one thing, but I don’t, I’m not going to act like I’m making exceptions, or act like he changed my mind, just to mold myself to the situation. We are very much alike in some ways, while differing in others. It’s just how we do it.

What is almost comical to me — not funny to anyone else, I think — is that since being with him this way, I haven’t written a single poem on his subject. Now those of you who know me, or know the usual ideas for my poems will be shocked to learn this. But for some reason I just haven’t been able to write fantasy, or fiction, about him; and the nonfictional poems I might write would be beyond anyone else’s understanding but his and mine, so there’s not point.

I’m probably not making any sense. ::shrug::

& before I get the premature questions of: are you in love with him? are you dating him? what does he look like? are you going to marry him?, let’s set one thing straight. From my posts in the past, you all know I do not believe in love. At least… not the “l.o.v.e.” that so many screenwriters, authors, and storytellers throw at us. I might want to, but intelligently, analytically, I just know in my heart of hearts that it can’t exist.
But in meeting this man, and knowing him, talking with him daily, I have begun to ge t a better appreciation on what does exist. Not love, necessarily, and no I am not in love with him — I’ve known him for 4 weeks, really! — but I do care for him, and he does make me smile more than anyone else.

So for now, I am Amanda-prematurely-undecided.