Tiny thoughts.

Ideas from small people's minds.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

But I'll be your friend... I promise I will.

I found him sitting in the corner today.
"He said he won't be my friend anymore."
Such big tears from such a little human,
but I could totally see his point.
A lot of them don't want to be my friend either.
So there in the corner
of a kindergarten playroom,
I was comforted by a crying child
who gave all the tears I couldn't.

Monday, May 18, 2009

Why the frown, oh my friend?
Are the clouds an interference?
Is it too chilly to laugh freely?
Or are you simply disappointed in the rain?
I'm sorry, you know, for the outcome of our play date,
but there really is no going back.
You can hate it if you want, you can frown.
Or you can search the ground for dry, sunny patches,
but please don't be shocked by what you do, or do not find.
Because this place isn't what it once was.
And it seems everyone here is so disheartened,
or maybe it's the rainy day.

Friday, April 24, 2009

I dreamed that I woke up in a garden.
With brandy-drinking dandy lions
who couldn't hold their liquor
and violently roared their disapproval.
The sunflowers fake baked and the roses smoked pot.
I hs from the chaos behind a shifty-eyed gnome
until the bumbling bees found me out
and chased until I burst through the thorny hedges,
into the future. The future of my hope.
A big city, built from sun soaked stone.
Delis lining the jewel toned streets,
serving hard salami, peace, pickles, and love.
Laundromats that efficiently and effectively
removed stains from Pasts and cotton/polyester blends.
And city sanitation crews would clean the gutters
filling big bins with all the minds they find there.
With robots who wash dishes and fathers who come home.
I fell back asleep on a soft park bench
only to wake up back in the garden,
but with no more imprisoning hedge.

Sunday, November 30, 2008

The sun rose outside, and shone in her eyes.
Caprioled from her bed to slide across the floor
in socks that were mostly worn for the fashion.
Grab and drag the brush through her bed-head.
A simple toy, covered in sparkle dust,
performing the daily task of transforming her into a beauty.

And before she twirls about the streets in denim gowns,
or cavorts with courtier or peasants,
she performs her ritual of the magic brush,
empowering confidence in her princess abilities.
Because gold glitter never gave her a reason to doubt in it.

And she would blink large, disbelieving eyes
at everything that told her she Wasn't.
her brush had made her enchanting
and she was delightful, she knew that as simple fact.
She would stand tall on park benches and sing her impromptu musical
What person wouldn't desire to give her their full attention?

And one day she lost her balance, thereupon toppling in her satin toe-shoes.
Her song chorus discontinued by painful intakes of harsh oxygen.
As Prince Charming and Fairy God Mother unlovelied her with words never meant for a duchess's ears,
the Kingdom turned to stone, and her heart followed suit.
To pay for her Independent Strength she traded in her precious, plastic gemstones,
and the next day she left her hair unbrushed.

Monday, November 17, 2008

Because rollerskates outrun zombies anyday.

Today I was important to someone.
Today I was actually needed.
I was desired.
I was helpful.
My company was enjoyed.
And my existence was actually noticed.
Today I held the hands of roller skating children.

And I laughed and smiled, because they don't think in the aspects of fat/skinny. They think of me as funny, and rad, and as someone who cares about them. And I DO care. I care because they still possess the kind of naive innocence that lets them charmingly believe that I am worthy to be admired.

I wonder what they would think if they saw me at my unloveliest?

I bet the world that they would love me anyway.
And that's why the children will always have us beat.
They know how to love for real.

Saturday, October 25, 2008

"Lizards are awful, one once actually bit a puppy.."

My Grandmother is praticing to be Steve Irwin.

She caught a lizard underneath a jar in her kitchen last week. It's still there. Before she trapped it she had sprayed it with laundry starch. She described it as "a crafty little bugger." My Grandmother is a strong woman in my opinion.
And I always love it when the strong woman come together and I get to be around them. It makes me feel safe enough to show my own, my real strengths.

Because I always like to pretend that I'm confident and above all comments made about me.
I pretend that I can handle everyone else's problems as well as my own.
I like others to believe that I am always, eternally happy in a disney-esque manner.
Lies are so beautiful, no?

But I have so much real strength! I have things that I actually succeed in! Things that I only feel able to flaunt while I'm within the realm of strong women.

I don't particularly admire myself, because I am intuitive enough to see the flaws. I'm also intelligent enough to know that what most of my thoughts and ideas is utter bull.
I might not be able to carry the world upon my shoulders, but I can empathize. I will cry with you even if I have never met you. I will keep you on my mind and in my heart, though you might be a perfect stranger. Because I wish happiness to people.
And I am not able to be a continual bowl of sunshine-soup. But, though I don't always feel or show it, I am capable of true, free joy of the highest degree.
Those are my strengths.
And I want the the universe to incorporate them into it's dance, and not make me change my steps in order to fit into it's routine.

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

I've seen worse damage done by My Little Pony wars.

There were words floating across the room, and I am more then certain that the speaker would have wished to be doing anything else then uttering them aloud. They were words of confession, and vulnerability. I heard in them an imploring for the hearer to be worthy of such a trust, to stand by them no matter what. A shy fear echoed in the undertones, and you could tell this was a world shaking monologue. But, for a five year old, many things are world shaking.

I'm not so brave as that little girl. Terror of my explanations being inadaquet, of my words being misunderstood keeps me from offering any. Same reason I'm ashamed of poetry I've written, as if I'm far too untilligent to write anything comprehensible. Same reason I'm too self concious to dance, clumsy and awkward. It would be so rude of me to place another in a situation where they would have to respond to my ungraceful attempts at expression!

In the end I held my little girl in my lap, her head burried in my shoulder, as she finished explaining herself to her friend. And I'm jealous of the simple aid it offered her. I wish I could burrow my head in the jacket of a friend, comforted in the trust of loyalty through it all, while I expose my reasons, my desires, my beliefs, my life.

"She told me she won't be my friend anymore..."
"But darling, you can sit with me."