Brush
I sit in front of myself,
Finding my way into my own eyes,
Searching for myself in my mirror,
Though I do not recognize this figure the light reflects,
I gaze past my trasparent face,
Looking for me,
I wipe invisible tears that never fell away,
Seeing the hidden scars appear,
Each contain a memory,
Revealing me,
Yet I paint make-up onto my body to suit society,
Showing what I desire to become,
I envy sypathy,
Since I know many have it worse,
My eyes remain dead,
I force them to enlighten,
Yet my bogus ways can’t even fool me,
I fear I am fake,
But isn’t everyone fake,
So would I be considered normal,
I don’t know,
Taking a deep breathe,
Tasting the air,
It is bitter, cold, dry, harsh, and judgemental,
I continue to stare at my mirror,
Hoping to find a piece of mind,
Feasibly an answer,
Expunging the stains on my bones,
Amending my facial expression,
Stealing an empathetic tone,
Craving joy,
Reenacting a ceased happiness,
But my kindness is often mistaken as weakness,
I can’t expect to be accepted in the world,
When I can’t even accept myself,
I fear love because I know it will never last,
I’ve seen what love can do,
I’m already dead in a living body so why would I want to die twice,
Some would say I have a belligerent life,
Or a dream life that has came into reality,
Others would argue differ,
Though it is not about what I have,
But what it can become,
Now I rise,
Place my TOOTHBRUSH aside,
Turn and walk in a slow motion,
As I stitch a smile onto my face from cheeck to cheeck.
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