She is like I was,
childishly certain, passionate
and dreaming, dancing
when no one’s looking,
socks on hardwood floors.
Never one for frills or curls,
never one for jewelry,
she wears the sentimental pieces
thinking they come with age.

She lies in bed all day with words
floating through her absent head,
pen and paper her only companions
preferring the world of her mind instead

of the family who stand
on the steps looking in
through the door at her love,
no room for friends in the piles of paper,
she prefers the house when it’s empty
and watches them file out one-
by-one-by-one.

She is like I was,
neither pretty nor sure
but knowing of something.

That’s not me, I whisper,
looking in the mirror, the face,
the eyes, the smile all aged;
the sentimental jewelry worn,
cascades between soft
and hiding shoulder blades.

I am not that girl,
all grown with no more wisdom,
still dancing in the shadows
when everyone’s away.
I long to lie in bed with words,
the ebb and flow of sleep and
waking, pen at the ready with
paper at its side
and my mind ripe
for the working, a childish imagination
dreaming and too certain
of anything I could be.

I am not like she was,
both pretty and both sure,
but knowing of neither quality,
knowing of nothing certain
and looking for something more.

04/15/2009

Author's Note: I am not usually one for rhyming, but it felt right. Unfortunately, I fear it messes with the rhythm and that the rhymes are generally cliche. Hince why I am not one for rhyming.

Posted on 04/15/2009
Copyright © 2010 Rachel C Johnson