You inspire me to write shit poetry about how my life is so complicated now that I am falling for you

There will always be someone better than me

Someone more beautiful

More intelligent

Funnier

Classier

And it must be serious if you have me questioning myself

Am I good enough for you?

Why would someone like you ever want someone like me?

I question my motives for wanting you

Because what I actually wonder is 

Why would I even want to be with someone like you?

You with all your mistakes

You strut around like the king of his own world

Flirting with every girl you see

Cussing and swearing all the time

At times saying the most misogynistic crap at times

So why do I even like you?

I really want to NOT like you

*looooong sigh*

But every time I am near you 

I just want to talk to you

Smile at you

Ask you how you are

How your day has been

What do you like doing...

And can I do it with you?

I want to study you

The creases and lines and contours of you

What makes you... you

Am I just a fool in lust for you?

I’m falling

And I don’t know where

But I know I want to land somewhere

Close to your heart.

I want to be your Jane and you to be my Tarzan but you really dont like hanging from trees

I hate this feeling

I want you to validate me

I want to be the only one who makes me smile

I'm like a beast in a cage too small when I see you with other girls

I don't even know if I really like you.

Like seriously?

Is it just the idea of being with you?

That makes my heart flutter,

my face grow warm and flush,

makes my hands sweaty and clammy...

When you walk into the room

my eyes dart and try to avoid you

in case it becomes too obvious

that all I want to do is touch you

and talk to you,

give you a piece of my mind

and learn about yours

your quirks, your fears and dreams

I keep reminding myself that I don't feel anything

it's just the climate

the change in temperature

the stress I'm under

the dishes not being done...

anything to stop me from falling for you...

Did I tell you I was a poet?

How is one a poet when one fails at vocabulary? Answer: *shrugs* Words form sentences in my head and when pen is put to paper, I call it poetry.

The Fa’asamoa

I’ve lost my culture.

The blood of my ancestors run deep within me.

But their language so foreign, like gibberish to my ears.

I claim to be their descendent, yet tongues are tied.

I reach helplessly for words that are not in my reach, yet so close to home.

Words that will teach the generations to come of who they are.

Yet only the white mans language slides smoothly off the tip of my tongue.

 O fea sa e i ai? O fea ua e alu i ai? 

Where were you? Where have you been?

What will I teach my children? Of their language?  Of their culture?

When the Samoan language I hardly know has been stolen from my very lips.

I try so hard to remember, yet my life is living to forget.

My eyes cry unseeing tears of sadness.

Sadness that sweeps over the eyes of my matua and aiga, as I struggle with simple words.

Words that will one day be lost in a cacophony of broken Samoan.

Written by 18 year old me.