What do you do when you feel as though you are coming undone.
A piece of string unwound, and the entire metamorphosis stunned.
Just asking for a friend. 
She feels her heart is tearing inside and ripping out her lungs.
Yet the beat is steady,
And the drum makes her numb.
She is greatness, brave and loved 
Yet it is the tragic loss that envelopes her every day.
The kind where it makes you feel as though your skin is an ashtray.
The kind that wakes you up with tears in your eyes.
With hope draining from the sockets and the weight of expectations just becomes so exponentially large that you start praying for it to crush you.
You pray that you can make it through 12 more hours.
And you watch others as they fall short of this depression.
You demand why, why is it that they get to be living.
When I feel so stagnant and dead inside.
Why is this world left up to probabilities and possibilities?

We say I,
Yet we never see,
Our eyes eternally shut.
Our mouths wide open. 
We say, I 
Over and over again.
Hoping for it to take on a different note,
Wishing for our hopes to not choke.
I, 
I want to know…
We never ask.
I,
I want to see the world.
We are still blind to it.
And the question why hangs in the air.
Without an answer,
Yet with mouths wide open,
We seem to have nothing to say.
To answer them,
Instead,
We say, I 
I...
Stutter.
I…
Searching.
I…
Finally, words suspend.
I am merely my own perspective.
I look through my own eyes.
Without being able to recognize
Who stares back at me.
We forget,
That as much as we say I,
We say you, just the same. 
 

Banging on a broken vessel in the spirit of its changing.
Carrying it without cause to nurture its growth.
While I deteriorated. 
While I loathed. 
You broke me. Shattered, threw, hated.
Yet when you look at me, all you see is yourself with years stripped off the shelf.
Memories stolen from thousands of places.
The most wondrous thing about figments, the thing they never truly confess,
Is that they are mirror images we never fully undress.
We never concede to feel such a despicable mess.
So we gather it, break it down and build it into a body.
A place to push the guilt, envy and shame.
The someone that you never became. 
The thing about figments, however close to reality they seem to be,
They never live by reason nor under the weight of gravity.
They live in the imagination
They live in your head, that shakes and quakes and can never be satisfied.
The one searching for a vendetta.

If it is pain, 
Pain will bleed.
If it is love. 
Love will lead.
If it is here,
It is ours.
If it has left,
Walked out the door,
Left these words unsaid,
But said so much more.
May we let it go.
For it was more than pain. 
It was held in vain.
For you can’t keep something broken
You can’t keep it forever 
Forever without crashing,
Breaking yourself.
But pain is not broken.
It is not endless bashing,
Continuous angst,
It is not without change.
It may seem odd.
Overwhelming at least.
But without pain life is devoid of true love,
Passion. 
And without love, pain is not derived at all.
Love will lead,
But pain, pain is what makes you bleed.

If it is merely the words I say

Then I will say them all

In no particular order

Without rhyme

Nor reason.

If it is merely the actions I portray

Will you trust them then?

The words I order

The promises I construct

Will you believe me then

See for your own eyes that I can do it

Complete it

Follow through

Trust is malleable

It is fickle

Yet deserving.

It is wanted,

Strived for

Given with penance.

It is earned through repetitive action

Consistent care

The presence of just being there. 

It is in what you do

What you say

How often you follow through. 

Because in the end,

I am merely the words I speak,

The actions that I seek.