Caved in with distance

I wonder if parents know that instilling a fear of being average

would release a cage full of crackens into the minds of children.

A whole field of fear just for me to frolick. 

A whole list of possibilities ad futures for me to flee from and lament.

A constant craving to be something so amazing

and the simultaneaous denial of that desire.

Always told that useful roles of life are filled befor you can even get your pants on.

My melted down, metallic, resolve bitter as I wash it down with my tea and 

suddenly dry sense of humor.

B's becoming acrobats and flipping into A's and 

I went from a girl of beauty to a girl of brain.

It's so clear why I don't pay attention to a body that my mother considers gorgeous,

she never taught me to really look at it.

She taught me to build my life around a pristine building of supposed intellect.

I forgot that I was even in a body at all.

To put in basic terms,

all physical awareness flew out the window with the belief that 

I will be anything more than what is expected of me. 

And although I became a girl of brain,

my mind has suddenly become a pile of mush

that makes me lop my head to one side or the other. 

The comparing and the compettion reveals the hideous part of the world 

that I didn't bother to look at.

As one would teach their beautiful child to love themselves, 

please don't let them drownin the art that they are taught to love. 

Their impending growth in the area may become infected and scar over.

I'm not doctor, but I'd reccomend exposure to open air and insecurity.

One will heal the wounds,

and the other will be ived with and battled like any other disease. 

Your child will become a marvelous, hexed butterfly,

and I can only hope that she goes tree to tree,

never to even see the sinking, caving ground as she escapes it.

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

The major souveiner of a terrible year

After shivering for so long, 

it feels decent to be able to stop.

I'm not sure I mind the fact that I haven't moved from my lying position yet.

The floor sure doesn't mind me here. 

I've gotten about every look that I could have been given for staying here. 

I know that it's been too long since I've fully stood up in my own bones,

but I know that they truly did need the rest. 

Perhaps when I need to, 

I'll be able to rely on them again. 

I hope that I don't find myself here again,

but I know that sadly, 

there are a plethora of floors beneath this one that

I can melt through to the rock beneath it all.

I will lie here in the cushion of the ground for a short while longer.

And in the absence of all that I knew, I will know other things.

And in the absence of knowing anything else, 

things will know me, 

whether I allow them to or not. 

The stereotypes were inredibly right. 

It was a life that I loved and a life that I will now need to leave. 

It's the same life, 

in the same chapter,

but with a shift in the tone.

I loved it as a favorite book,

but like any good book,

it wore itself out over time. 

My heart aches for the words that I no longer have the chance to re-read,

but I hope that they ease the pain of someone else.

It wasn't somethng I needed to plan, 

and I'm glad that I didn't because I'd have healed naturally. 

It's not my responsibility to ensure that people are kind,

nor is it mine to assume that they are.

I'm almost okay with the constant absence of loved ones and lovers

that never became my own.

Eventually I refused to need them.

I can't need them anymore.

There is a life to live and seeing everyone else living it shouldn't scare me anymore.

The long time coming of me realizing that I have my own pulse

has the uncanny resmeblance of a bird realizing that it has functioning wings. 

I hadn't used mine in far too long which is infuriating. 

Releasing the pain I once held so dear might just let me exceed my limits 

and reach my full potential. 

The limit of my mind has been underestimated and tested in the myriad of ways 

all of which I have passed with flying colors by failing them.

Rejection forces intrusion and although persistence encourages impatience,

It will be well worth it as success prevails.

The man behind the failure will always prevail amongst the failure itself.

Learning prevents the same failure,

but failure will always be inevitable.

I long for acceptance but that will only be something that

I can give myself by allowing myself to be seen. 

I will be seen by all, 

because not all will choose to see. 

However, 

I will continue to be grateful for my own eyes 

as I begin to see myself.

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

More of the end.

It is to my belief that 

recovery ends when one becomes sick of recovering. 

The healing process can be so that it becomes sickening 

to know that it isn't over. 

Being in that gross, sick of feeling sick state,

I'm not at all sure what's comforting to me anymore.

Or perhaps the healing isn't ever meant to stop.

Maybe it really does last forever. 

I'm not necessarily talking about the pain, 

because somehow that subsided slightly without me lifting a finger.

However, 

I think that I'm done recovering from this disaster. 

It isn't mine to mourn anymore.

There is a life to live and I no longer need to feel it slipping away.

Life isn't supposed to be felt as it leaves. 

You wake up from your business and realize that a little bit more time has lapsed. 

But for the most part, 

I perfer the sleeping state of oblivion. 

My only goal for my life is to be able to sit down in a rocking chair 

after age has rocked my body and know that all of it was worth it.

This goal brings about a sense of nausea that indicates that 

I need to be done with what is done with me. 

Things are ending all over, 

and there are too many things that I need to finish myself 

long before they do me in.

Everything will be fine,

as everything will go the way that it's meant to.

At some point soon,

I won't need to sprinkle glitter over my eyelashes to see the beauty in everything.

Not that everything will then be beautiful,

but I will have the gall to accept that some things are meant to be ugly. 

This was a terrible love, 

and it always will be. 

Terribly big, terribly hideous, terribly strong.

It was terribly permanent.

I have taken the solace in the walls around me,

forever grateful that not everything speaks. 

I've found that my favorite parts of life come when I ignore words. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Sleeping with the enemy

I don't think that I've found a more arduous task than trying to find soft, comforting pillow,

in a cloud that I'll fall through anyway. 

The cloud just looks like such a nice fluff to come home to,

and the one I've been sleeping on just doesn't do it anymore.

Or maybe it's not the pillow at all and it's just the bending my neck in different directions

trying to see through my eyelids a bit clearer. 

But when the coughing starts up again (because it always does)

and I wake up for the third time of the night, 

none of it matters anyway,

as though no matter how I go about it, 

the stains on my tuft of down will only get worse and worse looking.

The end of its life is quickly approaching and I'm really just not at all sure how to go about it. 

I've just known it for so long and all of my tears no doubt have marred it,

but I'm not sure any funeral can really do a quality pillow justice.

Or maybe I've just never had to mourn a time of my life before.
Everything is just rapidly passing and

although I make my bed as best as I can every morning, 

that one pillow just never looks the same as it did when I took it out of the bag,

let alone how it even looked at the six month mark when I should have replaced it anyway. 

I just don't want the replacment or even the relationship I had with such a comforter anyway.

But his life is indeed terminating,

and I should exterminate the bugs left from his extended stay.

I know that it was for too long and "we'll always have naps" 

but I don't know how much the time I wasted with it was worth anyway.

And while I'll always crave something to fall back into as I did a short while ago,

and I can't do it with the clouds I have to stare at and nearly touch,

perhaps in my pillow's absence I'll just look at them peacefully with slight longing.

I don't need another cloud to fall through.

I just need a firmer pillow.

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

The little souveiner of a terrible year

It might make me terrible,

but you wouldn't dare guess how many times I hoped that 

I wouldn't need to know when you spend time with her. 

I'm fine without knowing that you mended her wounds when she was a klutz,

and she thought you were so sweet and you loved her unconditionally. 

Please, dont tell me about it.

As much as I loved being your friend, 

a part of me knows that I shouldn't give you the time of day.

My missing out on everything going on around me

is enough to bare a hole right in my middle.

And I wish I could apologize so many times for being a screw-up,

but I really wasn't.

I was me,

and you didn't like it when I wanted to embrace that,

but I need to.

Because when you leave, I am all that I will have left of anything.

and while I'm well aware that you not wanting me (gosh that hurts to even type)

will never lessen me as a person,

it still stings sometimes. 

And as much as I want to hide it beneath the corner of a metaphor.

I don't know if I can be more blunt than telling you that I'm sick of seeing you with her.

Your happiness is well deserved,

but I did not earn or deserve the sadness that I have due to it. 

I also really want to apologize, 

but I have nothing left to apologize for.

I'm just an ordinary immature girl who has no idea what she's doing with anything

and while everyone tells her she's great, you don't really care.

I don't know how I could have made myself better so that it could have 

been reflected in your eyes. 

I was virtually the best me that, at this age, I ever could be.

I'll never forget how good it felt when I stopped my crying phase.

It will never stop aching, 

or perhaps that's just the idea that has been drilled into my head for so long.

Everything will last forever because all of your decisions right now are infinite. 

But as permanent as everything I do now feels, 

I however, will never be permanent by any means. 

I will come and go everywhere my soul sees fit,

but I'm puzzled as to why it's chosen to stay with you,

my apathetic friend, for so long. 

My memories are the terrible souveneir of a horrific year. 

This is the end of the story, 

and while most of them have the nice, optimistic end,

where something nice might just happen to the protagonist,

this is starting to feel like the real story,

which isn't really a story at all.

In this life,

the girl is left with stitches over the sadness that she  rips open all of the time,

forgetting to think of anything else.

The only thing remaining are the quirky blunders of

how powerful the year was as I decide to stop wanting to cling to it. 

Knowing that the next one will be more than easy,

I can try.

But I'm almost at that point in tearing apart velcro

where the friction is a bit too strong to even start that home stretch of pull. 

This was a grandious book, but I think that

I'm starting to lose feeling in my arms from holding it up so long. 

The print is getting smaller and I'm sick of

straining my eyes to try to read through the eyes of others. 

The writer was gifted and all-knowing, but quite frankly,

all I can hope for is that he switches off with an author of gentler hands and dainty script. 

Huh. 

I really did think that I would avoid metaphors in this business. 

I suppose that author taught me things that I haven't recognized yet. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

When the big black dot appears.

I wonder if painters ever make one big, splotchy mistake in the center of the canvas

due to a lack of planning.

If so, where do they go from there?

I suppose one could simply get a whole new canvas,

free of remarks and smudges of thought. 

This seems like a fine option for the rich, 

and those who have the time to start over,

even if all of their time was invested in that one piece.

Perhaps they think their work wasn't really meant to come to fruition in the first place,

that ignoring the other canvas won't necessarily obliterate it,

but it'll stop mattering much.

Or the different option of painting over it.

But I feel like that causes a sleepy type of paranoia 

that even when you've been through three coats of white, 

that massive paint splatter will always show from beneath them.

Not to mention it's a complete waste of paint all together. 

Waiting for all of those coats to dry and glaze over in just the right way,

Trying so hard to mimick the canvas that once was,

and slowly realizing that you never will.

Reflecting is healthy,

but covering all that you can reflect upon and seeing your reflection

in the wet concealer doesn't have the same sheen to it. 

But of course, there's always painting around it. 

The gaping dot in the center of your canvas doesn't need to represent emptiness. 

Life tends to move like a work of art and if it is anything,

it is subjective to change. 

Yes, everything has been done before,

and there is no reinventing the wheel in anything anymore

but you have one pair of eyes that have never been used by another,

and for the most part, 

they work.

Perhaps that black bit of error was one of your darkest moments,

but you don't need to turn it gray to make it beautiful.

In fact, you don't need to make it pleasing to the eye at all.

Not everything was meant to be seen in a magazine,

or glossy as its pages.

The uniquness in the finish of your eyes will tell you that at some points,

you still look like you've got wet paint to pour out of the can.

But during others,

they are as raw and honest as any other part of you.

This has been a terrible love and the obsidian is clear as the sun on

what was once pure and blank.

But know, there is no need to cover it up,

for some things are so much better enjoyed dark and morbid. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace. 

Sorry that all I have are meaningless words.

It's such a shame that all I have to express the sentiment of endings

are words. 

I could get you an EKG so that maybe you could have heard how my heart used to leap whenever I saw you,

and how it sank when I then saw her attatched. 

If I had the oppertunity or the ability, 

I'd fly you an image through the sky like most saps would

and I'd ironically crash my plane trying to watch your reaction. 

I can't sing, but with instruments of my own destruction the things I could make you feel...

Or not. 

I can't imagine a brick hard enough to through the glass that is pure apathy. 

I could create a vaccine to convey

how sick I am of being angry for things that I'll never have control of. 

Instead, I can create nothing because your senses have been given

to someone who you deemed more worthy than I. 

I'm sick of the pain that you caused. 

I so much wish that I could move but for the moment I'm stuck here

and you don't care because you don't care to see it. 

It's not a pain I can cry about, but it's definitely one that I can most certainly do without. 

I need the doll taken from me so that I can stop looking into its eyes. 

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.