I really want to run away.
I just need to get away from the person I used to be and the life she led.
I chopped off all my hair,
Changed my name,
Changed my wardrobe,
But I can't change the towns she came from and the parents she was raised by.
I just need to restart.
I could get a job at the McDonalds down the road and stop covering up my insecurities with drugstore concealer.
I could move in to the small town my grandparents live in in Georgia.
The one with the little cave and cozy antique stores.
All the people who own the antique stores know me;
The one who collects old photos and hats.
I could move to Tennessee like I've always wanted and start a punk band.
I like to find photos and postcards in antique stores.
I never read what's on the back.
It's not my business.
Long lost conversations and captions I'll never understand.
There are animals.
They must be dead.
They must have been wonderfully beloved and cherished.
Now I get to remember them and name them without ever meeting them.
There are postcards.
Messages to loved ones to remind them that they're being thought of and missed.
I don't read the messages, because I'm not the person they were for.
I like to imagine myself standing there, in full technicolor animation, adventuring with the people who sent them. We go all over the world.
There are landscapes.
I know photos weren't always easy to take.
They say eyes are the window to the soul,
But I have a fear of eye contact.
To me,
Eye contact isn't
Respect,
Easy,
Or painless.
I only manage it with people I feel safest with.
I don't want people to be able to see me if I don't even like who I see in the mirror.
I can still pay attention without directly looking at someone.
There are other ways to see into souls.
How they talk about art,
Music,
Books,
And people closest to them.
The way they sleep,
One day, I missed I
It wasn't left inside my bag,
or slipped among small stuffs in my pocket.
I tried to find I in the deepest I,
carefully explored things inside I,
put my eyes on every element of I.
But still,
I couldn't see I.
In my desperate,
I raised up my head
Then I saw lots of me
In the market, in the bus, in the eyes of people
And the I ...
the pitter-pattered fingers of the rain
the cries of thunder
the now smiling plants
are- - - - - - - - - home.
the passing of time
is quite strange
when measured outside
our own constructs
seconds and minutes,
hours and days
when counted in laughter and smiles,
so far and few in between,
how many of those moments count?
smiling for the camera,
laughing at a joke
when counted in the adventures
at home, in places far away
how many are remembered?
a week excursion to the mountains,
a night out with friends
Shes surely a work of art that one.
Outside shes
Violent slashes and thrown paint.
Inside shes
Billions of delicate dots and soft strokes.
All coming together to share her silent painted story.
what part of the cold
pale
sickly skin made you feel
beautiful?
was it the tint of pink on your
cheeks
or how it looked like every
breath
might just be your
last
is that what your heart
desired?
the want to be
frail
on the edge of
life
We
Take so
Much from
Nature never saying
Thanks or giving back what
Was taken. When I die let me lay in
The ground, plants growing through me.
Let me
Rot and
Give
Back
What
I once
Took
From
The
Baby
Born to be held in his Mother's bossom
A bright boy held by her close
Crawling and crying and cradling
And Mother said
I love you, my son
Toddler
Walking, running and jumping
Full of energy
Mother, please don't hold my hand
And Mother said
I love you, my son
Teen
Screaming, Shouting, running away from mother
Gone away from Mother's arms
I hate you
Silence.
Sitting in a room
Filled with mirrors only looking at myself
Clarity.
Thoughts within my head
Reading, writing, reflecting with myself
Madness.
Talking, shouting, screaming
silence.
Examining.
Observing the 12 tones of my skin
The red veins of my eyes
My height, my weight, my looks
Realisation.
Concluding I am alone
No one is coming, And
Serene
I feel. calm
The breeze touches my skin gently
I hear the sounds of car passing
I smell the smog from their exhausts
Am I an exhaust?
A machine created to push out oxygen as fast as possible without concerns for the world around me
The birds chirp
The flutter of wings
Tweets left and right
Conflict
Who would have thought?
Thought what?
Who would have thought the world would cure the virus it created
But they didn't...
The piano keys vibrate