Feelings On Paper

Two Sides Of The Same Coin

There is a part of me that wishes you were different.

That part longs for understanding,
the kind that enlightens you to my way of thinking,
my process and methods rise an epiphany of sense,
and my emotions are clearer than water.

That part desires empathetic senses like mine, 
in which you know misfortune has occurred,
my feelings need only explaining once,
and you know exactly what to do.

That part dreams your selflessness,
for time is both ours and never just yours,
it carries priorities and dreamless visions waiting to be followed,
and a dash of patience would come with it.

I know that part doesn't realize that if you were to come with any of those virtues,
you would no longer love me.

I posses most but I have not perfected them,
for that part that wishes you were perfect,
knows that perfection and I,
were never friends.

Broken and knowing that wishing for perfection is meaningless and futile,
I learn I live in a constant state of paradoxic scenarios.

I wish you were more patient,
yet I can't control my anger for one mistake.

I wish you understood,
yet I can't understand you anymore.

I wish you knew,
but I refuse to tell you what's wrong.

Assuming,
with all these thoughts and knowledge of said situation,
one would make the conclusion,
that I don't know what I want anymore.

I do not wish for your perfection,
for I know perfection would mock me,
but I do not want sloppy seconds,
for time ticks and I count each one.

I do not wish for your understanding,
because most times I don't want you to know,
but the times that I do,
you'd know how to tell them apart.

I do not wish for your empathy,
for I have suffered in agony and such pain is so undeserving for you,
but our lives have been so different,
that the experiences that I learnt from,
you could never have gone through.

You,
who lives carefree,
enjoying the paradise of your freedom.

Me,
who lives in fear,
fear overtaking my accomplishments.

A mirror to my likings,
a clone to my fun side,
and an exact copy of my needs for pleasure.

Needs and wants,
as different as our times,
strangers like our ideals.

I found myself wondering,
if the half of the part that wished you were different,
wished I was different.

The thought brought me sadness,
because that part was the strongest while dreaming,
and I had found only more confusion.