everyday, I open up blogger and read this again, and then edit it to death, and then put it back the way it was, and then hover my mouse over the post button, and then hate myself for even thinking about posting something poetic because isn't it bad enough to have an online journal? do i really need to further penetrate the boundaries of dork? then i think... well maybe it's not so bad, and read it again, and sometimes feel it's horribly horribly cliche, and other times I feel that it's very true.
i'm posting it now to end the vicious editing cycle, and move on with my blogging life. i'm calling it prose in recognition of the fact that it has no structure, rhyme or reason about it, and I know nothing about poetry.
prose for dad
i will always be a child to you
always a little girl hugging your knees
your hand will always swallow mine and I
will always think yours comforting
you will always want to teach me
mold me, guide me. and at thirteen
or thirty, i will always wonder what you would think
about this or that and if you would approve.
i will never be old enough
boys will never be good enough
i will never achieve enough
because you see me swinging on stars
and commanding the heart of the world.
some days i'll hate you
because i love you so much,
and a harsh word from you is a sword
through my heart and a night full of tears.
i will always stand before you blindly
with all of me in my hands,
holding out a bruised heart
full of hope and longing.