I am nothing but a soul trying to find peace
I have been beaten down to no return.
My mind is fragile, my confidence scarred
Think positive, but all I produce is negative
I feel as if I wander looking for something
Something that I cannot find
I search I search I search
I crawl, I walk, I run
Happiness, I guess that’s what I’m searching for
Or maybe it’s peace,
Hope, Or love
Love for myself once again
Love for me and my being.
I am locked. Trapped like an animal.
I try to claw my way out
But instead I end up being buried alive
I am suffocating.
It is debilitating, crushing.
Why oh why did this happen to me?
I suppose it was just a twist of fate.
If only I could see a little light
And breathe a little bit of fresh air
Maybe then this feeling will wash away
And I can finally say
I am free.
The thought of life gives me the chills, the shakes, the nerves, and everything in that category and some in between. There are so many changes, and I’m not sure how to digest them all. I categorize the changes instead, from least worrisome to the most worrisome. The ones that I can deal with.. and the ones that I feel that I cannot. It’s just life, I know. I have so many people surrounding me and supporting me, but sometimes the loneliness still strikes. It strikes so hard that it reverberates in my bones and it ricochets into my mind. In and out these thoughts flow. In and out my breathing goes as it gets faster and faster and more shallow. Everything becomes sensitive.. I try to remain cool, calm, and collected.. But, how? How, when it feels like everything is so far gone.
I close my eyes and try to imagine a new reality. One where the sunrises are vivid and the sunsets look like a beautiful canvas painting. I try to paint myself smiling, happy, and with eyes that are filled with glee. In my mind, the world looks bright. The colors are stunning and bright, just like my endless possibilities. The artist of this world is one that knows how to paint a beautiful picture. The artist in my mind knows how to paint situations to mask the real emotions. Slap a happy green, yellow, or purple over those drab blues and greys that have taken over my mind. Paint a face with a beaming smile to cover that frown. The artist in me has to make sure that smile has teeth showing, though. The artist has studied her audience a lot. She has learned that her audience, everyday people, think you are the happiest when you smile with teeth. Alas, the artist in me says she is finished with the current project. She tells me to open my eyes. I open them, and I think that I will see a gorgeous painting in front of me. Instead I see a painting that I do not want to see. I see a painting of a world that is ugly. The colors are mute and depressing. Instead of drowning my problems in the painting, they are showcased. I thought the artist in me was going to paint over this! I thought she was going to give me something happy and joyful. Instead I am left staring at a painting of my own problems, insecurities, and emotions that I wanted to cover. Perhaps it is time to stop covering them, but instead face them. Face the hideous colors as they are.
I am alive, I am alive
Don’t I feel the wind in my hair?
the sunlight on my skin
Don’t I see the way the earth envelopes me?
The wet grass on my feet
the bee that flies around me
All offer some sort of warmth because
My soul has grown cold
and my heart has grown heavy.
My mind has become clouded
And I am nothing but angry.
Save me from myself
Because I am my own worst enemy.
Where are the tears that constantly stream down
Each one is a little reminder.
“Stop crying stop crying!”
I tell myself constantly.
What good will crying do?
Puffy cheeks and red eyes are all I see in my reflection
As I try to comfort and remind myself that
I am alive, I am alive
Stuck between being a woman and being a child. She can’t help but live the fast life.
Dress to impress. Short shorts short skirts short shirts. Make sure you put your confidence on today.
Slather your red lipstick on, put on your glass facade. Your face is never complete without a smile; even if it’s fake. Never let the tears that stream down your beautiful face show.
Fake it till you make it. Fake it till you make it. Fake it till you make it.
Late nights are the regular. Doing God knows what.
“Take a hit of the blunt. Take a drink of the booze. ”
the fast life is all she knows.
But when does she realize it all comes to a screeching halt? When is the game over? When does the facade crumble?
Until then she keeps living her life, at the tender age of 19.
But she keeps getting caught between being a woman
and a child
I’m just another girl with an afro.
“Why don’t you comb it?” “Why did you decide to cut all of that long, pretty, straight hair off?” “Why would you want to look like that?”
Who would’ve thought there’d be so much criticism for wearing my hair the way it comes out of my head? I celebrate my hair and all of its kinks and coils. Why would I want to hide it? But, I’m just another girl with an afro.
I celebrate my hair, why can’t you? The snarky comments and the negativity are not needed. Your dirty looks and crassness are not warranted. I wish your opinion of my hair was asked for. Perhaps then your opinion would be valued.
But, I am just another girl with an afro.
The red lipstick I wear stuns
As I sashay and strut down the city
The heads and the faces of the people turn
But I have no care
My mind only focuses on the present
And never the past
My body sways with the wind
As the cold bites my face
The city lights are like a carnival
They highlight my features
They create beautiful shadows
The people and their energy electrify me
I feel liberated; unchained
My being is left to roam this earth
My soul is left to frolic
My eyes bounce from place to place
And person to person
My senses are going through overload
But I have no complaints
The city captures me
The walk and the talk
The music and the art
The realities and the illusions
The fantasies and the tales
Are all here
I fall back into my reality
I realize again
I am just another person in this great
Sea of people
I am just another spirit wandering these streets
The moonlight paints the ground before her with distorted shadows of the objects before her. The trees hang over her with a certain eeriness. She said it feels as if they are whispering about her, as if they are watching her. Her tender, bare feet leave perfect imprints in the dirt. A swirl of dust kicks up by her feet as she runs. The dark night seems to envelope her. She’s searching and searching as she runs further and further into the dark woods. The cold air fills her lungs. Her tears are streaming down her face and her eyes begin to sting. What happened to her? She spins around and lets out a cry. A cry for help, a cry of sorrow, a cry of grief. But the only things that hear her are the ever present moon and the night stars. Her screams bounce off of the trees, and the night sky with such a force that even shakes her to the core. Her echo is one that can be heard for miles. Her only solace is the one she thinks is above.
What is she running from? Why is she trying to hide? She finds that she is searching. Perhaps she’s searching for herself. Perhaps she’s searching for her own soul. She runs deeper and deeper into the woods, not knowing where she goes. Her hands are dirty, her feet are hurting. Her skirt has been ripped to shreds, exposing her bare legs. They are scratched and dirty. The blood is running down. Her face is now red. Her head is still spinning.
She can hear, but she can not see. She is nothing but a lost girl. A girl who’s running and running but can not find what she is looking for. She runs and thinks that she is so close, but she is always so far away. She’ reaching and reaching, but keeps straying further into the darkness. The silence is something that is killing her. It is something dreadful. The silence makes her think. The silence makes her realize. It’s too late to return now. It’s too late to go back. So she just keeps going, with the little power that remains. She keeps going, until she has nothing left.
“What do you love about me?”
“Oh gosh. Why do you ask me questions like this? I hate them.”
“Please, just answer the question. I just want to know. You can actually answer it, right? Or, do you actually have to dig deep for an answer? I didn’t think the question was hard.”
“Well, I find that the answer to your question changes. It may change hourly, daily, weekly, whatever. Some days the things that I love about you are your downfall. Sometimes the things that I love about you today are the things that I hate the next day. It’s complicated. Before, I used to crave and wish that you were someone else. I didn’t love you, and I rarely liked you. Your seemingly permanent insecurity was disgusting. It was something that I hated. There were always endless excuses on why you couldn’t and wouldn’t do something. They were hollow and baseless. Your thoughts were something that was vile. They poisoned you… I often wondered why you would do this to me…..”
“Are you just going to spew hateful things? The question I asked you was not relevant to your answer. Why must you always bring up those days. They are gone and they are buried. Tell me. What do you love about me? When you see me what emotions flicker and flutter across your mind and being? What thoughts consume you when you see me? What are the words you wish to tell me? Are my thoughts and actions still baseless and hollow? Or have they gotten some substance now? Surely there must be something within me that you love. Or do you just loathe every inch of me?”
“You’re never satisfied with the answer. Of course there are things that I love about you. I dare not hate every inch of your being. Do you feel as if I do? There are things that I love about you. In truth, there are many things. Well I’ll start off like this. I don’t want to randomly list things off that I love. You are not a bag of groceries that I must check off. There’s a certain type of comfort that I feel in you. Your being is simply intoxicating. Why? Ask yourself why isn’t it. The way your eyes glisten and gleam is lovely. You are learning to find a beauty in life now. I would say that is what I love the most. No, you are not perfect, and I will not tell you that. I have no urge to tell you that. However-
“Please stop. Your answer is vague. It seems generic, almost rehearsed. What is the honest truth? What is the honest answer? Maybe there’s more digging that needs to be done. Why am I even asking this question. What do you love about me… What a ridiculous question. I see the answer everyday. I answer my own question everyday… Nevermind. I wish to know no more. “