The touch of your eyes

Does anyone ever notice the pointlessness

of speaking without looking at someone else's eyes?

They'll tell you so much if you'll only let them.
While I choose to look away from you, do not let me be misunderstood:

I mean to look away from you.

You are looked at, but I don't want to see you anymore.

Somehow, looking at your eyes seems to be a bit too much for me. 

Sure, I'll pass you in the hall, but that is a pass.

As I'm taking a pass on what I used to care for. 

I'm trying to drain the life out of a heart that wants to care but can no longer afford to. 

But as I walk right by you, 

you still bother me. 

There's an itch in the back of my mind that I'm working so hard to forget.

Of course, I can't communicate this to you, 

but I do it this way simply because it's easier. 

There have been no metaphors here,

I really am struggling to look you in the eyes. 

I've avoided them best I could but I knew that you were looking for mine

and for whatever the reason, it hurt.

Or perhaps you weren't at all. 

Maybe I was just something that was easy for you to find and you didn't need to look too far.

I long for the space that your constant gaze doesn't provide.

I'm not so sure that I need the gush that your glazed over glance gives in full.

I will admit that it was once somethng that I had wanted for so long,

but with even a part of it being mine, it leaves a dull pain with the sting in my chest. 

You once mattered to me so much.

I don't think that the care I was so prepared to give is what you deserve. 

I bled adoration waiting for the transfusion of your affections. 

I can say that I'm better now a myriad of times over and it will never be enough.

By the skin of my teeth I change the rules and make them my own. 

It is not and never was my job to be the bank of your happiness. 

I gave you so many loans only to note that the deposits never came back. 

I just needed you to love me most. 

I needed to be fixed and I suppose I owe you the apology for giving you that job too. 

I need to know that we weren't right in order to keep myself in working order,

and because I don't and never will get your denial of that fact,

I can proceed with convincing myself of that as well.

And I need to because I have no choice. 

The only way that I have in my arsenal of getting over things is to push them away. 

And when I refer to pushing things away,

I don't always mean the slimy toddler rejecting their mashed potatoes.

I know that you are worth so much as a fellow human being,

but I also know that I'm just not worth your time anymore.

Your time is precious, and I know that I no longer want it to be given to me 

whilst it is shared with someone else as well.

I hope that you find a better way to spend your time than looking into my eyes.

Human Dignity + Compassion 

The Bright, Warm, Yellow Plate

I recall loving you once. 

I can remember the thoughts, 

the longing for each other's minds. 

See, I feel this inconsequential need to put this into a metaphor,

because although the bare bone language that I would speak to my sister

conveys the emotion,

my own demonstrates so much more.

Although I know that you, my friend, 

will always perfer the naked truth 

because you do not yet know to hide behind words as I do.

Well, in truth,

I don't necesarily cover myself in words as a disguise,

but rather I use them as a blanket to stop the glacier in my chest from fully forming.

But as I would in the sleep that I spend in my sea of thoughts,

I hog the blanket with the tenacity that I push you further with.

I suppose I found how I'm selfish.

I've been searching for it for so long that

I had nearly forgotten that it could exist- my selfishness. 

I've been hiding myself as the spider that lives in my kitchen does. 

His existance isn't necessarily clean-cut, 

and he knows that the plate hanging on the wall

will someday be moved for a special occassion. 

He fears the change,

but becomes acutely aware that it's an evil that he cannot live without any longer. 

His family was severed with the bang of a shoe

and a smear that he mimicks with a leg to wipe tears that

he shouldn't have had to conceal. 

But he continues on anyway,

cautiously carousing through the cracks of the wall that

he focused on so intently that he seemed to not matter as much. 

With all eight eyes no amount of water will be able to wash the events from his mind. 

So he dwells behind the contrary-to-his-own-self warm, yellow plate. 

He now knows in his old age that he doesn't need to stare at those cracks in the wall,

simply because they are the consistency that he is yet to reach.

The weary eyes have seen to much by now,

and he is glad to shut them for once.

Never too long,

but it's alright to take the rest and when he is long done,

he can find a different home outside with the spring,

My kitchen never served him as a proper home,

and now he has allotted himself that knowledge and he can crawl through an open window,

for the weeping willow tree outside holds promise.

He will discover all of them with time and make sure that they are kept,

because while such a sad tree provides shade,

the nips of light peering through are well earned, and will be most appreciated. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

I think it's almost gone.

I think the care that I once harbored for you is 

finally beginning to tarnish on its own. 

The gears in my mind aren't working the way that they once did.

There was the one widget that ensured that I didn't steer too far from the path 

that my mother and I had planned when I was bordering my terrible twos.

This one remained,

but I changed my path away from that one because it no longer made me happy. 

There was another that made strides at keeping my heart in motion, 

although the job was never done well enough.

The fatigue in my eyes has begun to wither. 

My least favorite gear was that of which made me long and struggle to gain

what I knew that I was never meant to obtain in the first place. 

This guy's gotten a bit rusty, 

too many bad days to be had.

I used to have this incessant care toward the way that other people thought and saw me.

Now I've made sure that he has no time to work his way counter-clockwising 

the limited apathy that I once refused to allow myself.

The factors that once told me to slow,

to, at the very least, try to understand that people might care

have been shut off as a light switch. 

To be completely realistic,

it doesn't feel as heartless as it is. 

I feel almost fine, which is much more than I had before. 

No one noticed, probably because the switch happened in my mnd.

I suppose when you kick the horse with enough frequency,

the horse develops PTSD and it goes on about his life.

 I would like my recovery wrapped in a cardboard box.

But on it, 

I'd rather have pale blue paper and the only thing of any type of glamour

being the coffee stained colored bow. 

The bitterness of my wreckless awakening may fall last on me,

but a superfluous part of me hopes above hope that someone else notices it too.

Maybe no one cares to look that closely into me anymore. 

Being frank,

I'm really not sure if that's a bad or a good thing. 

This really is being alive then,

trying to look to yoursef for everything and obtaining the knowledge that no one else will

because they try to do the same for themselves. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Ode to the restroom.

So happiness shouldn't last. 

There should be balance between the light and the heavy metals in our minds. 

But I just don't see how one day of happiness equated to several days of saddness. 

The ratio just seems a bit too off. 

I'm so sick of having a second of being okay 

to an instant antonym that I have no uphill from. 

I don't particularly care for the whole "Everything gets better" vibe,

because not everything is meant to be better as not everything is meant to be fixed. 

I am not meant to be fixed because I am not truly broken yet. 

Things could of course get so much worse but quite frankly, 

I'm feeling pretty the worst at the moment. 

I think the most massive part of being kicked down from a high 

is when it all hits you in public. 

As much as I love the penetrating stares, 

the bathroom looks like a comforting place. 

The paper towels feel pretty rough but they still absorb all that I need them to.

Come to think of it,

one could make a decent friend in the paper towel machine. 

The perfect absorber of tears. 

Toilet paper works almost as well,

but like me it's just a little softer, 

comes apart a little easier. 

The paper towel dispenser tends to get a little stuck on itself. 

It breaks a little more everytime. 

That paper towel dispenser needs a repairman almost like I occasionally do. 

Needing that help should't be shamed, 

for not all repairmen are able to fix the root of the problem,

but the majority of them are swiftly able to relieve the symptom. 

The toilet getting clogged is mundane,

as is the upchuck after the stopping.

Before I accept my reward for "Teariest of the Year", 

I would like to give my thanks to the sink. 

I commend the cool flushing of my cheeks as 

my tears stream down at the same rate. 

As much as I wish that the time I spent in there was less than the majority of my time,

I've found myself to be almost productive in there.

The only bang and clatter that aren't in my mind are in the shutting of doors.

The slight dripping of he sinks don't bother me in the way that it would drive others insane. 

It's not a bad place to be. 

After all, it's a place of rest. 

I know that the natural noises of the outside world are healthy,

but sometimes I'd much perfer the artificial silence of the

bricked up tile walls and nonchalant strangers. 

I don't try to think about the parts of my life that prove to be a bother, 

but I don't need to think about them too seriously either. 

All of it just seems to fall. 

I just need to feel what my body chooses and deal with it. 

It's strange, the way that once you ponder the present bad news,

the old looks like a new tennis ball. 

I think I knew that it was going to take longer than average to pass,

but frankly, I wish that the non-clogged toilets could

help me excrete the worse thoughts from my mind.

After being told that you suck in so many different ways, 

it's difficult to resist the thought that life is giving you your own new-and-improved swirlie.

So thank you,

dear public restrooms, 

for giving my the rest that I couldn't even find in an arrest. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Future personified in my mother's dresses

With my two hands, 

I can part a sea of water to just barely squeeze myself through. 

I do it not only beause I need to survie the tsunami,

I do it so that I can relieve myself of the grips that the expectaions of others 

have branded me with. 

I'm used to all of the marks there, 

they are not a private affair. 

But at the moment, the publicity of them is starting to worry me. 

It is by far too late to merely apply some vitamin E oil and hope for the best.

Not even scratching them out with the claws of a Pheonix would revive the skin beneath.

While I shouldn't need to revival because I'm still alive,

but something about the feel of them irks me yet. 

They don't feel as soft as the flesh around them, 

but they're not as rough as the scab they once might have been.

With my two hands, 

I have forced myself upward from the fall that I might as well have signed up for. 

So many things that I should have and could have known by now,

but instead I learned the lessons of another path 

that never even looked like a path to begin with. 

Because of the events that I've had to witness,

cause, 

and endure, 

I have a whole new list of regrets to reflect upon and ponder.

I've found myself conjuring them at four in the morning without fail.

I see so many things ending and I can't quite see through the fog of them yet

 to see the myriad of things beginning. 

They are there, 

or rather IT.

My new start for myself exists and it is just beyond my reach.

I haven't broadened my horizons to encompass it yet,

and I'm not ready to.

My new start will be the unworn dress that I bought anyway because

it looked to be worth my stare. 

I will fight my future battles in that gown with the elegancy 

that I would portray by simply waltzing down the street with it. 

I don't expect it to hang on me the way a proper dress should,

I expect my more than sight curves to be drawn out almost right, concealing most of them.

In general,

I expect it to be a little too much like trying on dresses from my mother's closet as a child. 

None of them would fit me,

and I wasn't trying to become my mother, 

but I just wanted to see how big the shoes of my life would be 

because those were the only ones that I had been exposed to. 

My mom's dresses were a bit more like the fifties

and all I saw when I looked out the window were scarce and sheer.
Those dresses of my mother held solid color,

they had lasted from owner to owner until the strolled into the back corner of 

an old lady's closet. 

They were dainty,

but they lasted for so long.

By this point in her life, 

the point when I didn't know the difference between certain 

defining colors ,

she still wore nice dresses, and her hair still 

smelled of the hair products that she taught me to love. 

The rest of her closet was strictly for formal wear.

Before he evaporated,

my father's suits shared the home that catered to my mother's.

Madonna really did create a nice movement with teaching women 

that it was not the dress that defined them,

or the body that filled it out,

no, it was the raw mind beneath the head of thick, medium length 

silver hair that made the woman all worth while.

It wasn't until about age ten that I realized that the majority of girls 

allowed themselves to hide in those dresses, 

allowed themselves to be molded by them. 

It has now come to my understanding that I have 

a plethora of strong, elegant dresses of my own hanging in my closet.

I no longer need the special occasions to wear them, 

but as they are pleasing to my eyes,

I know that they will never matter as much as they once did.

My beginning used to be in another woman's closet,

but I will never need to share my space anymore.

I have all the gowns I will need for the era that I hold myself in. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Pleasant inferno for a time.

There's a decent debate running amuck about my mind.

There's the one side that reminds me that putting myself first isn't selfish,

no matter how much it seems to be. 

The other side drilling my faith in others into the other side of my mind. 

They're both two completely adverse sides of the world and though I've made the decision,

the tennis rally persists. 

Pondering decesions that I've made without realizing they exist has 

made up the majority of my time. 

It's a migraine, but then something tells me that a rigid moral code isn't awful.

I can either have an increase in close loved ones, 

or I can just close myself off as usual.

People go on with their lives in near bliss,

while I seem to suffer to keep them there. 

To be honest, 

I'm a tad bit sick of it.

This is my time to stop caring about the apathetic,

and allow them to have the struggles they're meant to without my interference. 

I just need to know that I never mattered too much to them anyway 

and my absence is not something for me to mourn, 

but for perchance those who are meant to miss me to. 

There won't be many, 

I wouldn't expect that at all. 

But I think that there are a rare few who will look at me and get a bit sad,

because I will not permit myself to show that I care at all. 

None of it will matter in the scheming plot that time has layed out. 

The emotions of others are not my responsibility,

mine are.

The events that I've been forced to witness have hurt,

but I refuse to allow the participants to continue their actions. 

I need not explain my hasty exit, 

but it will appear as happy as I long to be afterward.

The door's right there, all I needed to do was take it, and now I finally will.

You took your door a long time ago and you checked out.

I'm sure you felt great after.

I'll take mine now and trust that it will be far better than yours. 

The bitterness that you decided to leave behind 

will be nothing compared to the content look I will force upon my face until it is genuine. 

Your control over my feelings hath gone on far too long. 

And starting from now, 

you will obliviate whether you'd like to or not. 

I left it to you to make that decision and I'm now choosing for you. 

Your existence means nothing to me. 

I am not the plan B when the plan A fire truck takes a dirty turn for the worst. 

I am the fire truck for my own disasters and you no longer count as one.

I will allow you to burn in your happiness

until you realize there's a fire and I allow the rain to fall at the same time. 

I hope that you truly enjoy the inferno, 

because I will never again be there to extinguish it. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Youthful wishing.

There's a fear that's come about,

if you can call it that.

Or perhaps one could name it a sensation. 

Using either title, 

the sensation of future will dawn overhead as the grandest eclipse, 

it all fades out eventually, 

but the journey there just seems to trepidacious. 
This is, after all, the preparation for the rest of forever,

and that word init of itself is so massive and ominous.

Forever and it's iminent permanence scrawled into my skull

like an instruction manual of when to finally shut down.

And the mere knowledge of the fact that one day, 

I or even someone else will push that preciously cute red button 

and nothing I do will ever matter again.

I will be of the utmost irrelvance. 

That ballroom gown that Serefine wore will only be but so beautiful 

as it burrows into the back of your mind 

and you manage the rest of your life.

The memories will never matter because the past is going to stay back there and rot.

The pets that took indefinite residence in your backyard will stay there

as will their little lives.

I watch the youth of others end and I mourn it for them as they seem so content

with the impending end of something beautiful that will never exist again. 

As much as I wish them joy,

and in turn wish it from myself,

I have yet to know such a bitterness that is the goodbye to 

not a person exactly,

but to something that you watched from the start,

and watch to the end. 

They didn't see it,

they felt it.

It might not have been the red button,

but maybe a blue.

The button meant to teach them that this is the end of the awkward grace.

There will be no more of the locker rooms,

and there will be no more strange first kisses to be savored. 

I hope that at some point they'll be able to cherish the small portion of 

everything in their lives before they take thier fingers off that button and make this oh so final.

They start from here,

and it is a brilliant start to something great in their existences, 

but I have no choice but to see it as an end at the moment.

I can hope that they will be safe and sane in a world that is such the opposite.

I don't know how far one little bit of will can go,

or if it will ever even reach them,

but maybe it doesn't need to.

I no longer wish to keep such a thing to myself,

but I'd love for it to be passed into the atmosphere and be accepted with warm, open arms.

No hostility flickering the flame of one independent candle resembling a goodbye.

They may not need the closure, but I wouldn't mind just lighting a candle with that in mind.

The wind will blow it out,

a gust as warm as the wish itself.

And as much as I wish it were time for me to stop wishing

for all of the life that I will simply never live, 

it is not the time for those wishes to even come to fruition.

Youth is for the dreamers,

and so I do dream.

Perhaps it is but a time to change the subject matter.

Eventually, from those dreams I will awake,

as I will at some point from this one. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.