Young.
Standing up for what I believe,
Refusing to relinquish what I want,
Or who, or what I am,
Battling for my rights,
Pushing back against the hand of wisdom,
Leaning into the strong wind,
Out shouting the thunder,
Being who I am.
Being true to who I am!
I will be me!
I will! I will! My will!
Bending only to gain,
Always returning to form.
I must be me. I must be me.
Still young, but not as much.
Black is black.
White is white.
People are what they are.
Not knowing they are also a who.
I’ve shouted at the sun,
Screamed at the silent moon.
Parents are parents,
Loving me always,
The sun watching over me in the light,
At night, the moon stands guard,
They are there, always there,
I don’t understand who they are,
Just that they are.
If my point is made,
I am satisfied.
I know they have feelings.
I don’t know they have feelings.
Learning.
Sharing my life with,
A person who chooses to share with me.
Being who I am,
I am who I am.
Take me as I am,
Unwilling to lose what I know,
To be the best gift to the rest of my life.
Is what I am the most important thing?
What I am,
Is it really what I want to always be?
Am I willing to be someone different?
Will I cease to be me if I change?
Who then am I if not me?
Snakes shed their skin because of growth.
To me, am I, what matters most?
Or is it those who love me?
Who I love?
Who I am,
What I am,
Who I will be,
What I will be,
Who or what matters more,
Than whom I love?
Moving along.
A rose petal squeezed tightly in a fist,
Loses its beauty,
Where is it?
Is it?
Shedding of skin is an ordeal,
It is uncomfortable,
There is risk involved.
Vulnerability is inevitable.
But the prize is worth it.
One is lonely.
Loneliness can be adapted to,
But it is not what I want.
Who I am,
Will not keep me happy.
Who I share my life with,
Will.
Not knowing how to change,
Or how much to,
Is bewildering and frightening.
But my rose petal is more beautiful,
Than I.
For my rose petal I will grow.
Unfortunately my heels,
Dig deep furrows.
With trepidation,
I allow myself,
To be dragged,
And pushed.
For my rose,
For my rose,
For others.
Moving further.
Who were,
Who are,
The sun and the moon?
Does the sun cry when,
It is out of sight,
And the moon is standing guard?
Does the moon cry,
When not on duty,
When out of sight?
It hurts me to know,
That I didn’t know,
They hurt,
Like me.
Like me,
They were doing,
Their best,
And feeling very,
Very unappreciated.
I am wounded,
Adolescence is a period of time,
Not an excuse.
Who I am is not as important,
As my parents knowing,
I love them.
Something New.
A miracle in my arms.
Loving what I hold,
More than who I am,
What I am.
My miracle is more,
Than all I am,
Or will be.
Sharing the miracle,
With the one who shares,
My life,
Is more precious,
Than who I am.
Or anything I could be.
Anything I could be,
Or would want to be.
Who I am,
What I want to be,
Is not as important,
As what I must be,
What I must become,
For those who love me,
Those whom I love.
Another something new.
Worry crept into my life,
Could I ever love,
Another miracle,
As I have loved,
My first?
Silly to worry,
The answer is yes.
Miracles are not the same,
They come at different times,
Accomplish different things.
They give something new to your life,
Something unique to your life.
Who I am,
Is not as important,
As who I need to be,
Who I want to be.
Then why are there still,
Furrows beneath my heels?
Perhaps they are not as deep,
But they are there.
Lamentation sometimes,
Overwhelms me,
Sorrow holds me tightly,
Around my throat,
As the furrows remain,
Behind my heels.
Will the furrows ever just,
Go away?
Who I am,
Is not,
Want I want to be.
It is not worth,
Protecting.
Half way.
I shed my skin,
With great anticipation.
I want to be uncomfortable,
To be vulnerable,
If it benefits,
Who I love.
Me,
My will,
Who am I,
What am I,
Is a sand dune,
Changed by the wind.
A willing sand dune.
I am not,
What I was,
Not what I will be,
Lacking what I should be,
For those I love.
They matter.
If I fade,
And they grow bright,
Joy is mine.
Who I am,
Is one who want to be,
What I am not yet.
More happiness,
Lies ahead,
As I become,
Who I will be,
And leave behind,
Who I was,
I am pleased.
Changing for love,
Loving to change.
Fortunately,
The sun and moon,
Also the rose,
And my miracles,
Are still there.
Who I am,
Shows in
Their eyes.
I must keep,
Changing.
Molding me.
I look to Him,
Who always watches,
And never sleeps.
He who has always,
Always,
Loved me.
Me,
Always changing me.
He molds me,
Lovingly.
Molding fast when I can bear it,
Slow when that is right.
He sees the furrows behind my heels,
He does not give up,
But His Hands are on me,
With me,
Guiding me to get,
Where I need to be,
And am far from.
He is patient,
But busy.
The example,
Is Him.
What I want,
Is to be like Him,
That will be the best,
For all.
IHS Circa 1986
by Bob with