...The story of a girl in London, England


I Am

Shamae Budd, 10/18/10

I wonder, then, if this is who “I am”…

Essentially, at the core, the being

I have always been…

This self, this existence, separate

From body or mind or heart…

Is somehow lodged within me.

Seared into every breath and cell:

My soul.

The part of me I cannot understand,

Or see, but only once in a handful of years

Unveils itself to me.

This absoluteness. This completeness.

This individuality that knows no bounds,

And will continue on, when I am gone.

This is who I am, myself. Quintessential.

Constant. Continuous. Unchanging.

This innermost being, this person I have

Always been, will always be, I am.


Seized by Sudden Bursts of Poetry


- Shamae Budd 10/7/10

This lone park Bench I hap’d upon-

(By chance or fate I do not know)-

In early spring when I was young,

Seemed just the thing to ease my soul.

Upon first look it looked to me

Much like most Benches I had seen.

But ‘pon investigation found

This Bench was fairer still, and sound.

Upon that seat’s sweet vantage point

With laughter, love, we watched, unharmed.

It sweetened all the world I found,

Together, sitting arm on arm.

When I was weak he eased beneath

My saddened aching tired bones.

And when my heart brimmed o’er with tears

His strength was stronger than my own.

But as the days turned into weeks,

The season changed inside of me

And called me far, oh far away

To other lands across the sea.

And when I ‘turned (though sun still shined)

I felt this Bench no more was mine.

Though it unchanged had waited long

I who returned, did not belong.

The summer’s heat then blistered things

To points beyond repair, despair-

Aging I turned away, and left

That dear, sweet Bench’s care.

And summer turned into the fall,

The changes changing ever more-

The leaves all turning, falling all.

And with that change my heart was gone.

And when the leaves began to drift

The air turned frigid and astranged

As we, the Bench and I, had been

Once warm and sunny, now a rift.

And now the wounds refuse to heal

Alas, my heart, it cannot feel.

Have tried myself again to mend

And in those tries have lost a friend.

Perhaps if lives did never change

I could have stayed forever there.

Upon a Bench I cannot name

So sweet, so happy. Unaware.

But seasons come and seasons go

And so do Benches, Friend or Foe.

So put me in a small black box

-Shamae Budd 10/11/10

You put me on a pedestal

A gaudy columned flowery thing

And set me in a small black dress

Expecting me to dance and sing.

But, though I am a dancing girl,

I didn’t want to dance for you.

And so I did refuse to twirl.

And yet you smiled, as you do,

As though I did all that you pleased;

A young canary girl at ease

Who with her kisses and her love

Danced in your heart and to your drum.

Thus then I tried from there to climb

And found the slope too steep, too high.

And in frustration had to scream-

“This is a lie, this is a lie!”

So then a sudden in your eyes

I was transformed from saint to sin.

The small black dress a small black sack.

A small black heart now lodged within

My little ribs and little sighs.

What could I say, it was a lie--

But all deceiving was your own.

I wouldn’t dance, as you well know.

So put me in a small black box.

Keep it under lock and key!

Save all young men who are seduced

By their own vain imaginings.

You’re only one.

-Shamae Budd, 10/12/10

I know what “to love” means, I know

How to feel. How to play make believe

And pretend that it’s real. But it

Takes two to tango, and you’re only

One. So you better look elsewhere.

You better not run from the cruel

Fact of life that I hold to be true:

Though you love somebody,

They might not love you.

Heart Beat

-Shamae Budd, 10/12/10

“Don’t play with him,” she says.

“Don’t beat upon his heart.”

A heart that isn’t beating doesn’t

Play its natural part.

To sigh and swoon are well and good

But pain there is in love.

If love you do,

If heart beats true,

You’ll tear your heart apart.