Poetry Collection

If I Were an Artist

Why do I feel the same way all the time?
What would suit me is a croudless mime.
When I see you, it's all the colours of the day,
I'll keep it grey and stay out of your way.
You're the one to complete the story,
I do not mean to be the Bory.

I should write about my own things,
at least no one will know what it brings.
I should have conversations with myself,
determine what books be told on my shelf.
Because if it's your book shelf presenting,
trying to read in will be very unsettling.

I have so much to tell and to share,
but in the face of others I beware.
I never seem to add up to spice,
they say I talk like scattered mice.
If only I'd speak the direction you face,
but it doesn't seem to reach you in any case.

Sometimes I like being alone in my world,
if I were an artist, an other could be curled.
Maybe then my feelings could ensnare you,
of my thoughts and interests you'd have a clue.
Then maybe I could match up with the others,
maybe I wouldn't be the one who bothers.

To stop running from myself I need your eyes,
so I can stop compulsively telling myself lies.
I want to follow the other girls to the field,
I want to jump out like a girl for you to yield.
Maybe then I could start wearing this dress,
leave the old coat hanging with all it's distress.