Shrewd
From a collection of poems titled Sad Girl Hours
I burn, I pine, I wretch,
I hurt, I think, I write.
I burn, I pine, I wretch, to experience the little inconceivable thing called love. Affection, I know from my friends, whom I hold dear. Unconditional, expansive, big as the actual universe love, I know from my parents and my family whom I am grateful to have. Albeit, romantic love, I must say I am more than mere wanting of application of feeling. I think I am more than deserving.
In a world where a woman must claw for the things that are ardently already hers, thoughts and voices, dreams, and aspirations are often dashed, maybe wanting it so bad is the problem, maybe that leaves us exposed, exposed to the hurt, and the self doubt and the worth issues. Small fissures in the foundation of you.
And, maybe that’s the real problem is here, the love I feel so desperate for, is that from myself.
I wonder when she’ll come around, if ever. I wonder if she likes me as much as I like her.
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By Tyra Garrett4 years ago in Poets
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