Vers Libre...

(my own work)

It's so difficult not to say I miss you.

I do.

There's a twist in my gut.

Disappointment, in myself.

For not being good enough.

Can't think of what I did wrong (tears clogging up my brain).

Feel so inadequate. And embarrassed.

Going insane.

Maybe not as intellectual as you'd prefer.

Is that it?

But I am who I am and I try.

In my own way, bound with wisdom.

I was taught with life, not with books.

It's not like I can't learn.

I'm learning.

I learn.

Know the extent of your ignorance.

"Information is not knowledge.

Knowledge is experience.

Imagination is more important."

Albert Einstein.

See?

Yet...

Sigh!

Hate: leaving you wanting more.

And the feeling of fatuity.

And the fear of falling short.

Hate the awkwardness now.

When all I want to do is tell you how much I miss you.

Heart wrenching, soul ripping, body aching, want.

Want to be me.

Want to be sufficient.

Accept me wholly, fully, completely.

As I am.

For who I am.

Or don't accept me at all—I guess that's what you did.