I've always hated the changing room
                                        I pick out clothes to try and walk in
                                        Only to be confronted by myself

                                        We then look each other up and down
                                        Disappointingly we remove our shirts
                                        And grimace at each other's
                                        Tan lines, hair, pudge

                                        Perhaps if we try these thrity dollar shirts
                                        We will look like that fellow
                                        The man standing on the beach
                                        Jeans but no shirt
                                        Staring awkwardly at the corner of the room

                                        So we put on the shirts
                                        And yet nothing's changed
                                        We still hate the changing room

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"The Changing Room" I turned into the teacher.  So he just looked at it.  "You're a Four Alarm" got discussed in class today.  Ok, class comments time one more time:

"[Freaking is an] odd word choice."

"Sounds like should be one paragraph, not two separate."

"Good poem, says a lot in a little bit, nice theme, visuals, interesting."

"Short and sweet.  Just enough.  I like your words and it is very visual.  I like the twist at the end.  Nice job."

"I want to know what she looks like."

"Not much depth compared to the other one.  Good twist at the end."

"What makes her so hot.  What does she look like."

"Needs more but very good."

"A good unrequited love poem.  Short + to the point.  Some lines could be revised to be more 'poetic.'  Also, of course, we can't see her at all or see the speaker of the poem.  But  maybe that's not part of this.  It's more like an 8 line joke, but it does offer some insights into these feelings."

"I thought it was pretty funny and the imagery is there and totally relateable, good work."~

And so I find a pattern developing.  I'm reaching my goal of the short and to the point poems, however I find that while I'm trying to stay away from flowery language, I'm using vernacular verbiage that is taking my readers out of what is intended.  This is a poem that I'm going to try to save and revise.

Another shocking thing is that they pointed out that it was an unrequited love poem.  I had the intention of another comedic love poem, and it is truly.  However it also falls into the unrequited love category...and that is something that i've been trying to find the words to express for years.  Who knows?  Maybe this is my voice.

Anyways, if you remember me telling you about the Omega Project, well I decided to put this project on the back burner.  I was thinking to myself a while ago and finally understood the other side of the story.  The Omega Project itself was a last ditch effort to rekindle...something...anything!  I needed to make my presence known so that I can offer myself as some sort of contender for her heart. 

However, this project came under public scrutiny and criticism, as I was asked why I should change who I am for this girl.  The argument was that I was being false to myself, and that she's not worth it, for I had already been denied once.

Undaunted, I strove on, to the point of exhaustion and still nothing has come up.  That was when Dr. Malaambo talked to me.  He was concerned and asked if I could remember what I had read in Don Miguel Ruiz's book: The Mastery of Love.  Of course it had been a while and I had forgotten.  So I thought and thought about what it was, and then it hit me.  All my energy funding the Omega Project must be stopped. 

I thought that I needed to do more to catch her eye.  I needed to strive forward with all the passion raging inside, so that she can finally know who I am inside and accept me.  That was the problem.

All that I did was all that was needed to be done.  That was all that should be done.  I did not have to do any more.  I finally understood what she meant by "It's not you, it's me," because truly, it was her.  I did everything and there was no fault in that.  There was nothing more that I could do.  She was afraid that she could have someone like her and appreciate her unconditionally.  Some perpetual (dare I say it...?) love that was there, and I loved her simply for who she is. ( There! I said it!  I actually said that I loved someone.)  I didn't love her and wish she could be someone else.  I loved her and wished that she could be with me.

But being with me wouldn't be her.  It couldn't be her.  And that's what dove me wild.  It made me mad.  I understand better now.  And I still love her, though she'll never choose me.

Finally, acceptance.  After a lifetime of grief.  I'm moving on now, and leaving you to where you are.  Because where you are is who you are.  And who you are is who I loved.