shut them out,
clog my ears,
I cannot listen.

the words,
they attack me,
choke me,
wedging themselves within my core.

I cry,
I scream,
I take those words as truth,
and drown as they push me,
past the deepest darkness.

but as I hold my breath,
I tell myself that
even though I may be a wounded gazelle,
I have the heart and will of a lion.

and somehow,
I poke my head out of
the web of pain.

though the words,
continue to float around my head,
taunting me,
prodding my nerves,
I remember that
I am a lion,
and I will perservere.

I could never understand,
comprehend,
why all the dolls I had
when I was little,
were so pretty.

they stared at me,
through glassy eyes,
eyes with the most
dazzling pigments.

their tiny dresses,
sewn by a few threads
and idealistic whims,
fit their skinny bodies perfectly,
exposing a carefully crafted figure.

their painted lips curled up,
into an everlasting smile,
and they seemed to mouth
'what is fat? what is imperfection?'

I also could never understand,
why all the girls wanted to be,
not just like the dolls,
but be a manifestation of those dolls.

do they want
to not have a single thought in their heads,
except the desire for perfection and admiration,
for people to think that they're beautiful?

do they want
to blink behind vacant eyes,
with lashes curled?

do they want,
to have constantly worry,
about having a fold of fat
on their skin?

there is a reason,
why dolls are unmoving.
they have to be controlled,
by a superior force,
guiding their actions.

is that who you want to be?

I can assure you, my friend,
I may not be a beauty queen,
and I may have some fat to my name,
but I am not a doll.

And I am **** proud.

my mind tells me,
'why even bother?
you know you're going to fail,
like you do at everything else.
you're pathetic.
it's not worth trying,
if the outcome will always be the same:
failure.
you'll never be that person,
who you so desperately want to be.
you are not good enough.
you are merely the product
of your own and others' dissapointment.'

but my heart tells me,
'you know what?
you should bother.
always try,
put your heart and soul into everything,
even if it seems like a hopeless cause.
you can prevail,
because you're not the person
in your thoughts or dreams-
the one who you desire to be,
no.
you are you,
a special person
who shouldn't strive to be
any more or less than what God has bestowed.
if you just keep moving,
having faith in yourself,
then you will be the product,
of your own satisfaction.'

who should I choose?

sometimes,
I sit at my desk and take out
a new piece of paper,
with no creases, no wrinkles,
just ready for words.

my pencil is always in reach,
sharpened and ready to
make contact with the paper to form
words
and string those words into
sentences,
and connect those sentences to make
stories.

but there are times when
I have no inspiration,
and I stare at the lined paper,
pencil suspended in mid-air.

my thoughts are jumbled,
churning in my head like a tornado.
leftover emotions,
wisps of nostalgia.
they toy with my mind,
tugging me in different directions.

I never know what to do-
poetry or prose?
first person or third person?
what do I even write about?

I get ideas.
they formulate in my brain
from one of the thoughts,
and they cling to each other
for dear life,
as more thoughts are sewn on.
more pieces of a puzzle,
more factors in the equation

my heart beats faster
as my excitement leaps.
and I bend over my paper,
pouring those thoughts and ideas
onto paper, taking extra care to
connect and loop my letters as I write.

but as more words
are added to the paper,
I realize that this was indeed
a bad idea,
a stupid one that'll go
no where.

scribble scribble scribble,
I tear my paper,
along with the ideas,
and I toss it into
a garbage can,
filled to the rim with
wasted paper, useless ideas,
and irrelevant thoughts.

"I'll just write again tomorrow,
by then I'll have inspiration."

that's what I always tell myself,
as I leave.