You may be fooling everybody else, but you are not fooling me. I can see the show you put on to allow others the comfort of thinking you are okay, even though you are not. You do not want anyone to feel the pain of your shattered glass. The constant jokes and silly stories, used as a distraction to deter them from looking you in your eyes and seeing someone who is still stained from their past. They call you a jokester, and you like it, for you would rather be called goofy than bruised. You leave hints that grant a select few access to peek through the cracks, but hardly ever letting them see it all. If someone were to ask you, would you draw back the curtains and show them the full work in progress? I want you to realize that a stained glass window is more beautiful than a clean and clear one. You have the ability to show others that although previously broken, a stained glass window can become a masterpiece.

she's stuck in the middle of
wanting the world
and
wanting to leave it

You fell asleep first tonight
Now here I am

You must know
Melatonin can't even touch you

She believes herself to be broken, but what is broken anyway? Aren't we all a little broken? A daily battle with her inner demons, she is never at rest. How can she fight back? She doesn't have the energy to, she is just trying to survive. She is consumed by all the doubts she has placed on herself, confirmed by the critiques made by the crowd she surrounds herself with. She always seems to choose the wrong kind of love, because that's all she knows.
But she herself is love... and she doesn't know that yet.

everywhere i go
"i want to be anywhere but here"

As she walks, she looks down at her feet
As she's still, she looks up at the sky
Too afraid to face the world directly in front of her

But where does the time go? Between 10:30pm and 3:30 am?
Spent in tears, in laughter, or in silence, all of them capable of being a twilight time zone without you realizing.

Staring at a notecard sized screen. Turning page after page in a book. Repeating to yourself for the seventh time, "just one more" even if you know you still don't mean it.

Those phone calls. The ones when it feels as if saying "goodnight" is like flying back from Neverland.

Laying still, or restless, gazing out in a dark room, up at a popcorn ceiling, each kernel a reminder of an embarrassing thing you said in 5th grade. We crawl into a blackhole of  -wish to be forgotten but always remembered- mistakes.

Rehearsing your script for a significant part of your tomorrow. Imagining possible life memories in anticipation of an adventure that is waiting on you to begin it.  

Solving solutions to problems that haven't occurred.
Searching for answers to the questions our universe has not yet answered.

What is the real order of life to our world?
What is truly beyond the city limits of our atmosphere?
Why do we really ask both a confidant and a total stranger "how are you"?
But more importantly,
why do we always accept "fine" as a desirable answer?
How can five hours feel like five minutes?
And, sometimes, something in our universe will ask us back,
"are you still there"?

for once
I would like to be the inspiration

it's starting.
A slight burn in my eyes. The tears, gathering. My heartbeat, irregular. My legs, weaken. My hands, tingle.
it builds
what do I do?
should I try to fight it or will it be good for me to let it out?
when will someone notice?
is this all in my head?
everything get's blurry.
I feel nothing and I feel everything.
the shaking begins.
I start to mumble, audibly, though I try my best to fight it.
the world get's muted, the voices yell louder.

and now, I have to wait it out