If I could, I'd live in a song.

I'd sleep in it's melody

and spend my days in it's chords

I'd rewrite it's verses and laugh when the bridge no longer made sense

I'd treat it like a pair of shoes and wear it in

Singing it over and over again until it fit just right

Then I'd perform it

And let myself flood through speakers and into the ears of audience members

I'd pick an artist and decide to let them trademark me

If I could, I'd live in a song

And damn it I'd be a hit

But only to a certain crowd

The ones who see beyond the words and feel the soul

If I were a song

I'd be the kind that just hits people

The kind that grabs the gasp from the back of their throats and pulls it out

I'd the kind that evoked the kind of tears

that one had to choke back

If I could, I'd be a song

Played over and over in minds of those it's meant for.

More than words

I would like to read a wonderful poem

written by a wonderful person

on of a course a wonderful and breathtakingly beautiful day

But I wouldn't like to write something like that

Instead I would like to write myself into a poem

Fill it to the edges with passion and tears

And when I think it's finished, layer it over with adventure and fear

Then after it's been read through twice and backwards

I'll cover the corners with tape laced in stability

Then breathe the life of faith into it's pages

And run my fingers covered in naive ink over it's words

I'd let my friends hold it, leaving their essence in the empty places

And then I'd fold it crooked and leave a kiss on it's bends

Drop it on the ground

trip over it 0f course

Then put it in a bottle and set it off to sea

But not before I whisper inside a little things about me.

So that the person who finds it

Is flooded with the things of I

And when they read my words are lost in what I can be

They'll be immersed with one touch in the parts that make me

And I and them

Never having met

Will share the moment that makes us

Even for just a moment

us.

In the face of adventure, I lower my brow and say "I'm not ready."

Preparation nods me in the back and says "yes your are."

My sentiments exactly

Read this and it pertained to me so well that I had to repost it. 

"And so it is that I’ve come to the conclusion that no one can complete you, and nor should anyone have to. Maybe we’re not meant to be complete, or maybe we already are. What do I know? Maybe completeness just stunts us from growing. Or if there is such a thing as completeness, then we should be able to use all sorts of different things to plug the holes inside us, and maybe we can learn to complete ourselves. What I’m saying is that for the first time, I want to fill in the Kat holes with Kat stuff, because when I think of someone else’s stuff in all my internal nooks and crannies, it starts to feel kind of invasive.

That’s not to say that I don’t want to love and be loved; just to say that it’s no longer a question of “You complete me.” What I need now, which is so different to what I needed ten, five, or even three years ago, is not filling, but a use for my fullness. I want someone that will push against the wall inside me where I’ve spent all my time repairing the spidery cracks spreading across the surface. And when the destructive veins behind to reemerge, I want someone who will stand beneath me, holding the ladder I’m climbing to reach the blemishes, handing me the tools I need to smooth out the puckering in the paint as I go.

I don’t want anyone to complete me anymore, regardless of whether I feel complete or not. All I want is to be a girl standing in front of a boy, eyes full of tears, professing my love, and with ultimate resolve say, “You extend me.”