Some days, I wake up and decide, not to get dressed. Some small desire inside me, urges me to keep on sratching my pen against the paper, like some small dream will appear out of the words I try so hard to create. Some days, I wake up, and feel like no matter what I do, I'll never be able to let anyone love me, for me and maybe a hint of sarcasm in a seemingly blissful situation. What makes us think, that angels have wings? For me, angels are symbols of heartache and depression. Faeries, carry out my freedom on their wings, so I don't have to think about the dream I might have tonight. So, you say, let's all worry about our crooked noses and mascara caked eyes, while children beg for their father's forgiveness, so that maybe, just tonight, he won't hurt their innocence, for the millionth time this month. Try, oh you beautiful, beautiful people, to see past your brains, and into the sky lit up with diamonds. Maybe, one day, I could be just like you? We don't need to drink up our sorrow, but eat up all our hope. We are gluttony's breathe of fresh air. Oh, and that ballerina, is anorexic. Let me take a bath in peace please, and dry my hair with the wind. I miss him you know, more than I miss being barefoot in the woods. That seems forever ago, and never shall it return to me; it was nice while it lasted. My hands, will always be big, my feet will always be too wide. I will always have to pluck my eyebrows. I don't suppose I will ever really take myself seriously. But a dream that lies beneath my tightly closed legs, will hopefully, one day emerge, so I don't have to keep pushing myself to be more than I was born for. My neighbor died from an anurism, a few weeks ago. I don't feel sorry for her. Does that make me a bad person? Sympothy isn't always nice you know. No one, cares about anyone anymore. Why should it be up to me to break the ugly mold you have created? Oh, a dream is in the stars tonight. My disfunctional breathe can be seen a mile away. It's cold out, too cold for my skin to even begin to fnd warmth in itself. Sometimes, I wonder, if I am just a joke, being played on the world. Perhaps my brain will take over one day, and everyone will see what I see. I guess it would be a boring perspecitve of a world then. Miscomunicatin between me and you, could be disasterous. Even, maybe, kinda, sorta, fatal to the universe in all it's bright smoke. It's kind of funny when and where you find inspiration. To kill, or hate, to write or sing, love or lust, pretend or cry because reality was too cruel to you last night. I know myself too well by now to let things slide past my brain. I know I am too smart for my own mind to comprehend. But we manage.
"Try, oh you beautiful, beautiful people, to see past your brains, and into the sky lit up with diamonds." Amazing poem
