Mind dump (I know it has been a minute LOL)
Healing takes time, yet I've only ever been scolded for my gradual pace. Hurried to the finish line, rushed to the destination, as if the journey holds no significance. Pushed out the window because I lingered too long savoring the view. My lack of speed isn’t all my fault. I carry the weight of the things that anger me. Anger has turned my glass body into a brick - and I've never heard of a time a brick wall won a race. Yet my friends seem to be the feather holding the stopwatch yelling at me to go faster as if I was still a body made out of glass, as if I wasn’t changed, as if I was like them. Sometimes I wish I was just like my friends. Not to say I don’t have any desirable qualities. I know they’re there though they are quite hard for me, myself to name. I have glistening eyes (Though they are the ones I blame for my fate). I've been told my nose is cute and that I don’t smell. But I’ll never compared to the face of my friends and the way they love without using their hearts, I wish I was like my friends in the sense of how they pretend the weather doesn’t change. The winter is just as hot as the summer and autumn is the same thing as spring. Rain or shine they hold themselves high as if there was not a tornado right behind them. I don’t seem to understand how we stand on the same ground - their shoes coming out clean, but I have muddy feet. They smell the roses and I get caught in the thorns.
I have a hard time understanding my Mother and a harder time understanding my Father. I wonder how hard they try to understand me, or if they just assume they are all knowing - they're are a second hand of God.
I am more enlightened by the more people I don't allow myself to forgive. Discovering their mountains flooded my seas and I am only as strong as the monuments around me. The knowledge of my pain is never exploited because there's no autopsy on a body that still breathes. I met these people before I knew what it meant to have known me. I am enlightened in the ways of worth.
I do not have much knowledge on why people are bad people or how good people can do bad things, or how bad people can do good things. How hurt people can hurt people. How someone can have such malicious intent and still sleep. I think causing pain is absolutely embarrassing.
So no , I do not understand the people who have not only stabbed me in the back but make a point to twist the knife. Yet my greatest enlightenment is not caring to find out. Speaking to these people again is the definition of failure. It is projectile vomiting and rotten eggs. It is the spilt milk that I cried over.
My enlightenment is blurry, I can't tell if I've started living life differently or just found a new way to stumble through it. I'm just a writer who can't write. Just an expression of ideas. I don't know how to properly form sentences. But I have learned that some things are only for God to forgive.
I have a hard time understanding my mother and a harder time understanding my father. I've had to unlearn the things they have taught me . Daddy lesson's were never very good , never very loving. Lessons I create new for me and find importance in enlightenment even if it means lack of knowledge.
Lately, I forgot I cared
That I wasn't loved by you
And then saw you smile
And it took me back to the days we used to laugh
Our energy together allowing us to run for miles
And I wonder what about me didn't make the cut
What about me didn't appeal to your senses
What about me wasn't enough for you
Lately, I remembered what it was like
To want to be wanted by you
And then I saw
The array of nothingness in your eyes
Something I’ve never noticed
And I wonder how long they’ve been empty
What about the world that made them die
What about the world affected your sight
Lately, I have lived in a world
Worried about you
Releasing it wasn't I who did not satisfy
Because you were lost
And I wondered what you really longed for
What about your life is not appealing to your senses
What about your life is not enough for you
Haunting sky of stars
Singing to the moon
Flying pieces and parts
Dancing to the tune
A lonely toy
A pack of wolfs
A dream I dreamt
A hollow mattress
My eyes closed tight
As the butterflies
Head to the moon
A lonely toy, pack of wolves
Married daisies following hooves
A grateful girl
Herd of horses
Thorns without roses
Running away from the tune
Things I wish said to you.
"The silence. This very silence. That has gone on for months. This silence is the loudest in my head it has ever been. The silence between us. The strangers we have become. Is it the worst crime you've ever committed? Or am I truly dumb?
The Discourse. The very Discourse, that we used to have. Lingers. Creeps. Barges in as I brush my teeth, as watch the professors hand move across the white board, as I eat, talk, drive, walk. It Barges in throughout my greatest daydreams, forcing a remberance of my worst nightmare. Oh the jealousy I feel towards you. To be able to inhale and exhale without thinking of the words you once told me.
I think you are cruel, genuinely mean. I know you are a liar, but I do not know who you were lying to. I don't know if I ever truly met you because you were not who you shown me to be.
Remember the discourse. The very Discourse, the words you yourself told me. I got to admit, It’s a beautiful lie. The yearning thought of your apology
It's a hopeless void, knowing you don't miss me.
Do you remember the words? That came from your tongue. An inching spider to mother a web of lies.
I am thankful we do not speak. Because speaking to you again is the concept of failure, it is stepping on a nail barefoot, it is expired milk and projectile vomit. It is being the only person to laugh at my joke. It is digressing. But there is one thing I want you to know. Karma is laughing at my jokes too, she'll find you. I hope you get everything you deserve - but I hope I don't hear a word about it."
You don’t love me .
The first boy who called me beatiful,
ended up being the worst guy I ever met.
so no, you do not love me.
My body is the guideline for boys.
My heart is the instruction manual.
they throw away.
You don't love me.
you love the idea of my hair.
falling on your face
as I remove my lips from yours
You love my softness.
the idea of making me
You love the way my body.
could benefit yours
You don't love me.
Never missing that a beating heart
is an open wound.
You don't love me.
You just wish you could.
the blood that rushed throughout veins
from birthing of child
to matching the pitched in which the doorbell praises
I wonder if it all meant something.
or distinctly destroyed by factors outplayed.
the decipher of a baby's tears.
nights I've stayed up.
wary and woed
bleed straight from my soul
Take away my special
and carry me the defensibly.
as the girl next to me
who worships the grave
is the difference
between violets and roses.
Being published was the warm cherry on freezing cold ice cream, the validation I had always craved. Being published means more than just expression - it means livelihood. It is the blossoming of the seeds of the garden I planted as a child. The " i'm proud of you" that I have heard but finally realize is not satire. Being published meant the world to me just for my tiny college's tiny art's magazine. I can't wait to see what my words can do when pressure is applied to the message. Being published would bring meaning to my name.