The Girl Out of Reach

Just a poem I wrote in 09 I think.

When I look for the girl out of reach,

I can almost see her peeking out from my eyes.

Wearing pink polka dot dresses,

Not mature, not a mess, but happy at best.

She eats her cereal with a fork,

And does all of her homework in the dark,

With curly hair and freckles.

Not sad, not flat, but better than that.

She dances to her own made up tune,

Her heart rings the words of her soul aloud.

She raises her hands to the sky.

Not waltzing, not swaying, but the beat keeps on playing.

Now the seasons are taking their turns.

She’s meeting with adulthood and growing up.

Wearing all her painted faces.

Not graceful, not dark, but still quite stark.

She still plays "house" in a flowered apron,

Trading in her Barbies for books and words.

Tears on her pillow case at night.

Not young, not neat, but still somewhat sweet.

　

Whatever will become of her, that girl so far away ,

With her dancing, and words, and funny ways.

No polka dot dresses anymore.

She’s not happy, not dying, but her eyes are still crying.

I wish I could find that girl wherever she has gone.

Too much has been said too many things have gone wrong.

Those eyes are mine and mine alone,

They’re still pretty, still bright, but I’m not all right.