Every Day

 

Every once in a while, I won’t feel so great about myself.

Every once in a while, I’ll look at other people and see their beauty.

I’ll see the smallest, most trivial and insignificant gesture

Take place in the form of a smile.

And my entire inner existence collapses in on itself.

 

Because, her genuine ability to smile as if this exact moment is the most intoxicatingly and electrifyingly invigorating moment to ever present itself--

Her genuine ability to smile as if she is the greatest embodiment of warmth and endearment that has and ever will cross your path--

Her genuine ability to smile as if she is the only one any and everybody can and does share any and all of their deepest and most intimate secrets with,

Because the way her teeth glow

And sit imperfectly perfect in her pristinely and pleasantly placed mouth give you something honest and trustworthy enough to pour the entirety of your soul out to--

Because her genuine ability to smile as if she is the most valid form of life and consciousness that has and ever will exist,

 

Is a very, very, very good thing.

And even more so, it is very difficult to obtain.

And it is something that I do not have.

And every once in a while, that makes me sad.



 

Sometimes, I’ll watch people do things.

I’ll watch a simple, sincere, and unsophisticated human being transmogrify into the most complex and convoluted version of himself,

Purely because he is faced with a presence that mirrors himself in a way that amplifies his most intriguing and inspiring attributes

And draws upon his greatest and most inclined talents and abilities.

 

I watch him

Discover and uncover the colored

Through his wonder at a world with a seemingly colorless lense.

 

And I watch him

Find these colors in places and ideas and people

And soon enough, this fiery fanaticism colors his entire world with a slight tint of rose.

 

And the rose of these tinted glasses he wears is what thrusts life into the otherwise

Lifeless and lackluster so-called lover of life.

 

And he lives,

And he loves,

And he breathes

Color.

 

He becomes the beauty he sees.

He embodies, and he emulates.

And he recreates

Greatness.

And when the greatness is great--

I mean utterly and unreservedly great--

Others notice.

 

The lifeless are suddenly given life.

And their vision is no longer

Black, white, and gray all over

With a hint of monotony and mediocrity.

Because they start to see color in the greatness of others,

And the transformation begins again.

 

Sometimes, I’ll watch him and all the others living in color,

And I know that for me the world is still gray.

And sometimes, that makes me sad.



 

Every day, I’ll look at everyday people.

And my eye is consistently caught

By the confidence in thought, speech, appearance, and ability
That is possessed by these everyday people.

 

People who may or may not know who they are as individuals

Or as pieces of a puzzle that leaves just enough space for them to complete it

And feel completed by it.

 

Yet

Their ends are only just slightly too jagged,

Or just slightly too curved that they don’t quite fit.

And the vacant space begging-- demanding to be filled

Haunts them relentlessly instead.

 

Regardless.

You would never know.

Because they’re able to act as if everything really is okay.

They’re able to act as if they aren’t broken

Or lonely

Or hurting

Or losing pieces of themselves

Or gaining too many

Or being fought against by everyone around them

Or being fought against by nobody but themselves

Or laughed at

Or ridiculed

For trying,

For the first time,

For the one and only time,

To put their hearts on the line

Or even wear them on their sleeves

Or expose even a small part of themselves.

They’re able to pretend that everything is okay.

And after a while, even believe it themselves

And compel everyone else to do the same.

 

What truly amazes me is their strength

To let themselves try and be okay

And know that it’s okay to try to feel okay

With trying to feel okay.

 

When a person can love herself

When a person can love himself

When I can truly love myself enough

To try

Or to try to try

Or to try to try to try

To be okay,

To be more than okay,

To be so much more than okay,

That’s when I know that everything will be alright.

That you and I, we’ll be just fine.

 

Every day I try to be enough

Because it’s every day that I feel that I’m not.

Every day I have to convince myself that I am, in fact,

Enough.

Enough of a friend,

Enough of a student,

Enough of an artist,

Enough of a human being.

And every once in a while, I succeed.

 
This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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