Friday, August 9, 2013

Believing In Fairytales

I started this journal for you
it was going to be a gift.
It would have been all that lived in my heart 
written out by hand for you.
After that day you said to me
yes, I feel you too.
My heart burst open, exploding 
fireworks into the sky.
I ran to the ocean, notebook in hand
to tell her what had come. 
I dug my toes into the sand
to root myself in what I felt.
A feeling akin to floating
tethered to nothing at all.
A heart so full it lifted me
with a lightness I can't explain.
Time has passed now
and everything has changed.
Though there is still sand in my notebook
I doubt that you still know my name.
I fell in love with a voice
a sound at the end of a line.
Words that came when I needed them
but I never should have heard.
You have now renounced that voice
citing it a ventriloquist's trick.
But I cannot speak for anyone
I listened to what was said.
If that truly wasn't you
I wonder who it was.
And why she so eagerly
let me fall in love with her?
Maybe you needed me
as much as I needed you.
And maybe the words that passed your lips
just scared you because they tasted so good.
Maybe it was just nothing
another page in a book.
One that was easily turned
for the words on the next page.
The problem for me is I'm lost n the tale
fiction fooled me again.
Believing in myths and fairy tales
like a child lost in a dream.

**for the last few weeks, I 've been writing in notebooks, by hand. I haven't done this in a long time.
Just sifting through some of it tonight**


  1. I maintained a personal diary for a couple of years back in my teenage. And till now, I feel a void because I discontinued it last year. I love writing by hand. When the flow runs unobstructed and smoothly, I paint the pages with all my thoughts and dreams and those scrawling are worth so much more than my blog (I love my blog too, haha).

    And in a way, we are all living in our well-tailored dreams, snuggled up in our cubbyholes of comfort so that we don't have to venture out and face the real and material conditions of our lives. But one day we will NEED to step out. I just hope that when I leave my cubbyhole behind, I walk out with a head held high and a confidence which is immune and independent.

    Brilliant poem, Andrea. A pleasure to read it.

  2. words are like a warm coat or sweater during winter grey days and like worn but comfortable tennis shoes in the summer. Eventually they're put in a closet forgotten and replaced. One can save them for posterity and go back and wear them sometimes just to revisit that warm memory.

    Nice reflection, mi amiga

  3. most of mine start in my journal written by hand...fiction fooled me again is a rather evocative line...and it stings in its reality...