Walked into the dressing room
Questioned the fit
With all the lights angled
To illuminate the best places
While inside, the struggle
holding all together just to feel fit, the lift and separate.

It is a wonder how all this frilly lace, thread,  and beading
could make a girl, become woman, turned bride.
its a disposable ideal, one chuckled about since the beginning of time.
Seemingly picture perfect, now the faux retouch
a process where reality turns fake
The day a mere memory

Now about the questions
as we look at the reflection
striving for perfection, but yet it feels incomplete,
next, Watch, strap in, repeat.

there are no yes moments, just...
yes things
the feeling of suffocation
of a day, where this will only be in the closet,
when everyone wants you to dress up
You to play along
you to conform.

(The emotional build up
the pain ensues)
all for a day no longer is about you and the other half
but filled with moments of regret
where simply just having a judge make it happen
would have been better
then seeing family come together

a final step down, back from the fantasy
or nightmare, with increased humility...

it is all clear, the item is beautiful,
but for some, this is a tortured fun.
no single person can imagine
the stress of just trying to celebrate two people forming a marriage,
that this one day can make, break, or dissolve a feeling
with the dawn breaking,
thoughts are revealing.

the last step down off of the stage,
lights, reflection, multiple direction mirror,
makes it much clearer.

can you breathe?
can you walk? Can you talk?
can you sit down and enjoy it?
But if a single no appears, alterations can ****
so save the moment, take picture.
get real.

only in a dressing room
can one reveal the truth, nature, and absurdity
of cloth, lace, beads, and thread.
question the fit.
and live without the regret...
of buying the disposable wedding dress.

it only seems legit,
if you knew the half of it--
there were lies, deceit, and foreshadowed moments...
a familiar face, similar sounding name,
the light bulb is blown.
i have no idea what the hell is here,
but it is sure as hell...
a small small, world.

ive made sure to burn the **** ties,
cut and change the game,
the ******* thing that makes me different
makes you all seem the same.

i am an individual,
an entity,
a one-ness, of my own awesomeness...
but i know when fun is fun.
and then the work must be done.

Focus.
its seemingly funny and a what the **** in the same motion
the notion that Something is Off
and bulb is known to be blown, blackening the room,
the glass shatters and the fumes turn--
the shadows into the nightmares of the past...
a small world indeed!

run away, scared of me?
i grew up, moved on and some how closer
while we all look the opposing way
the walls keeping us apart will always be there.
those walls keep you far away,
the times that bother, disgust, an plainly outage...
you keep playing them against me and making--
me the stranger?

danger danger, will he ever understand?
this boy that everyone thinks of never sees reality.
he lives in fog, in an illusion.
if he thinks its awesome...
just wait for his conclusion.
the story he tells is only lies.
i have have recorded, documented and realized...
a small, small, world,
where it seems that me-- is the one whom knows the horrors of OCD.

i saw the little bird flutter
dance from dropper to dropper
and the image fades in the clouds of smoke.

Nay, the lines show on my worked hands,
the trouble in life,
where i stand...
this line i drew in the sand is nothing like the life in lines
read in palmistry
or the scars emotionally
those that developed, enveloped and disappeared
as a decade passed into another year.

my reflection in the mirror changed,
the migraines are no longer the inspiration that drives me.
on auto pilot, driven by fire, flames were fanned and told to flourish.

now there will be a change in the line up
because ****-up-to-****-up there is no other way
i could say how much more in less than the 8 hours a day--
of work, of solitude, once i which came of use to?

well life, if you are a mirror,
then *******! i was told i was done too...

with the ashes settled, i'm at home.
he is still a little wobbly, a little toddly, and oh the  "NO!"
into the cabinets i find, a flicker of life,
desire,
****-- i am sold.
i found out what in the world...
i am here for.

Sixty, ***-ti.... i cannot form a single thought,
a heartfelt thought and ones of revenge
as the heater went out, and it being colder than the fridge--
i saw that little bird, fluttering,
Still

life seemed to start again,
with a push of a button
go
with all the carnival rides
flavors, and gimmicks.
i cant quit.

i am up too late w/o reason
a date in mind, i'll find the season...
to jump and sit back, relax.
as the waves of the day relapse,
the winds behind the drive,
to see a smile in innocence,
to repeat later in a over done line
of repetition, recognition, rephrase,
words recycled, garbled, rambled,
all in miscommunication
crying to help, choking down a shot of hope
but this is a end of a rope
severely torn and frayed
at the beginning or at the end
i cannot remember if a day or night
there is always more than enough light.

December, May and then June...
We've fallen out of tune.
A stroll down memory lane.
Lost in solitude
Once... [more].

Shadows play in the cold...
Expression-less figures dance [together]
in the Spring rain ...
walking on the seaside

Wonderful moments to embrace
A dust clouded you and I
...where were we?

followed the Autumn leaves
Smells of cinnamon, apple, and fresh wood
[but] I only remember
December, May, and June...
We've fallen out tune
[where we'd say 'I Love you?']

September alone
awaiting rain of May,
shadows of December,
walking in June.
could I have forgotten [happiness?]

without knowing, We would meet here.
life begins in the spring of May
continuing in June
Inside December's warmth...

Wrapped up in memory
easing from fear, my hope.
that an end never draws near
always holding for Love...

Walking in December,
Cold in May,
Raining flooded June...
we've fallen out of memory
and a tune
like broken pottery, scattered,
harvested in June
sculpted in December,
awaiting May...

im awake
no sleep
a list so long
no time to foil
as the world turns
burning midnight oil

migraines and ...
the major issue of eye strain
but when i am home
i cant get a moment

alone

unless i lose or delay
the end of the current
and start of my next

now i understand
why my own mother
and her hands
ache and throb

for creativity
sanity
awaiting for the dam to break
and an idiot to choke.

but to master stupidity
tact, humor, and a balancing act...
one slip or fall
a test
for my undivided attention
but i know the direction and

...cost objections.