No one can begin to fathom my life today,

Running, rushing to get to that place someday

Like in everlasting race;

Shall we begin understanding the sleepless nights,

The never-ending frights

Of not being good enough

And worrying that they’ll call your bluff:

A race that continues like an endless route

Of incomprehensible doubt

Which leads us to the final question….

But, we shouldn’t ask “What is it?”

Yet instead, continue forth understanding this deep pit.

 

Trying so hard to figure out who we are

And hoping to get the least amount of scars.

 

The grey water that scratches its fingernails on the doors,

The grey storm that scratches its teeth against the doors

Crawled as a clan into the lives of all,

And seemed to multiply as if spores,

Attacking those who were unprotected,

Unknowingly leaving those quiet few

Who somehow managed to go undetected.

 

And eventually a time will come

For the grey storm that creeps along the path,

Scratching its nails against the door;

It’ll come, it’ll come

To put an end to the drama that is this wrath;

There is a chance to grow or disintegrate

And a chance to learn the ways of the world

That soon teach you how to love and how to hate;

A chance for us all to stop and breathe,

And a chance to make a thousand mistakes,

And a chance for a thousand heartbreaks, and a chance to heal from such fates,

Before we again, begin to wreathe.

 

Trying so hard to figure out who we are

And hoping to get the least amount of scars.

 

Shortly after there will come a time,

To question, “Should I now?” “Should I now?”

Time to turn into the girl they vow

Will succeed in life and grow like a sow-

(They will scream: “What a grave mistake!”)

My clothes in fashion, my hair done up for heaven’s sake,

My face paint modest and light, enough to make-

(But they will scream: “She is such a fake!”)

Should I even try

To fit in at all?

There’ll come a chance

For mistakes and heartbreaks, with a chance will end it all.

 

I have known of these types, know what they do:

Known the disturbing race to which they call all,

What good is life when you continue to fall;

I have now granted my being the worth of a shoe

Allowing myself to be used by others.

Whatever happened to my druthers?

 

And I’ve known this venomous type, know what they do-

The poison that engulfs your brain,

And just as you begin to succumb to their way,

When you think you have figured it out, you never knew,

You are spat out once again to your dismay

Which then invokes great pain.

Whatever happened to my druthers?

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

Might I add, I have gone along the day in the busy halls

And witnessed the storm erupting from the classes

Of pathetic girls in tight-dresses, yelling out the doors?...

 

I ought to be a pair of broken wings

Chained to Earth of dark skies.  

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

When home, the night, seems so quiet!

Caressed by a mother’s soft touch

Exhausted…fatigued…or depressed much

Sitting at the computer, analyzing this riot.

Can I, after selfies and makeup and #struggles,

Be able to solve the world of any of its troubles?

Even when I tried and starved tried and changed,

When I have seen my body (now slightly deformed) dragged across the floor,

I am no model-and that does not mean I am a spore;

I’ve witnessed the world and its workings,

And I’ve witnessed the devil hold the noose, and hurt things,

And I’ve come to the conclusion this is out of my range.

 

And would it be satisfying, finally after,

After the modeling, the showing off, the selfies,

Amidst the glares, amidst the judgments of me,

Would it have been satisfying,

To have done what some would say is gratifying,

To have sold my soul to the nearest passer

To throw it away to nonexistent love,

To scream: “I’m human, and given into your ways,

Now here to say after, I will say that after”-

When stopped, by the angel of my mind ablaze,

Starts yelling: “This is not life it is full of cancer;

This is not life, its cancer.”

 

And would it be satisfying, finally after,

Would it have been satisfying,

After the fame, and the fortune, and unconditional love,

After the beauty, after the grace, after the tight dresses that sparkle-

How does this not seem so right?-

Why can I never find the right words!

But it is as if my mind has been torn apart by the herds:

Would it have been satisfying

When stopped, by an inner angel so long after,

Would turn toward my heart, and start yelling:

“This is not life it is full of cancer;

This is not life, its cancer.”

.           .           .           .           .           .           .           .

No! I am no model, and was not made to be;

Am a quiet girl, that does as she’s told

To keep society balanced, easily able to mold,

Begging to be called upon; from the ones high above

Asking to be abused,

Pathetic, unconfident, and acting like a machine;

Full of insecurity, waiting to be used

I know, quite well, how ridiculous this seems-

How I know I am easy to dispose of.

 

Older…Older…

I mustn’t relax my shoulders.

 

How should I do my makeup? Will I ever get out of this daze?

I should find my glasses, and leave behind this maze.

I have seen the sun sparkling, fighting through the haze.

 

I don’t think it will sparkle for me.

 

I’ve seen it coming through the clouds

Touching the white feathers of countless birds

When no other creatures seemed to have stirred.

 

We remain floating on clouds

Each slowly taking our turn

Till we realize life goes on, and we burn.