To the wallflower you, I ought a modest wish,
for wellness, and strength,
and in future you might need:
In woods you might come strutting upon,
in battles by the cold moon, to melt by the sun.
the mysteries had vexed your soul,
and humans made your heart both cold and warm.
and though your fingers bleed in delightful art,
the work of your hands lacks the eyes to adore.
you seek answers yet fail to ask;
you seek warmth and fun yet refuse to bask.
think so well in company, yet always best alone.
and care about pens and pages and books,
than men and peers and friends and phones,
and befriend characters like they were real.
why! for they speak good, and right by the hook!
than earthlings who talk in quacks and squeals.
blame them folks! for they call you modest!
shyly peeking and listening as if on secret quest.
and only, for they have never heard your clamour,
your songs, and the messy pianos of your mind.
the words in tangles, a chaos in full galore,
dim-witted plans, and poltergeists right behind.
blimey! if they had known, all the wild you are!
you were in no way a modest lady, like they know!
untamed, wild, wild, wild and very much wild!
And for the wish, the modest wish;
I wish you might have known
that for the times you do not know where to go,
and moments your hopes just vanish
and those times, when you wish to replenish
and do not know when to start,
do know, the mess made you who you are.
And you are chaos, one better than that of any art.