New Poems for 2012- Hungry & Misunderstood

I am hungry

(And I’m sure when you look at me you’ll say, I bet you are)

But there isn’t enough strawberry ice cream or ho-hos in the world to fill the void that makes me hungry.

Hungry for love

Like the late Etta James (may her musical soul rest in peace) said, I want a Sunday kind of love.

Sun to brighten the dark path my heart has walked on for much too long.

Days without even a nibble of affection

Starving for attention

In need of a Grade A inspection

Instead of looking at just a reflection of the connection in need of correction or maybe just the deception of my own mind that a little elbow grease will make it work.

I drool to be cool like the girl on his arm, his prize, to my surprise a genuine relationship without the thought of the demise.

Thoughts that my jaw is tired of chewing on and spitting out.

Tired of writing poems and songs about a lonely girl and a love gone wrong,

Grumbling to be satisfied

Full on butterflies.

Mastering the art of compromise

Gazing with the eyes,

Measuring the power of something you cannot give a size.

I know I am not the only one with this starvation,

Creation of this sensation has been brought on by a society of falsification with no explanation and increasing interrogation about one’s own situation.

But alas I want to be danced and romanced, and lost in a trance (enough to lose a bus pass)

Given the chance at last to bask in the basket of goodies life has ahead.

Misunderstanding

I am not demanding the handing of the spoon to my mouth,

But my life has gone south

Since the landing of that plane

That was in the air for a fair amount of time

I didn’t commit a crime.

I know I crossed a line,

But I’m going out of my mind

As I try and try to catch a break

Making more and more mistakes than I’d like to take credit for.

I know sorry isn’t enough

Because the world is rough

And I just gotta toughen up

And get the hang of this stuff.

I am a privileged child I know

But I’d like to show I really am a humble person

As I stumble on the broken ground.

I’m trying to stick around,

But the sound of the pounding of my heart falling apart

Keeps me bound to this tragedy.

I’d deceive myself if I believed in the harmonious scene I’ve conceived in my head instead of knowing how to deal with the problem.

I know it’s all a part of growing.

Growing up.

I thought I was ready.

Maybe not.