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A short glance through a telescope
Ignites a common wonder
About what lies beyond
This troubled world.

If another does exist
I hope they’ve figured out
How to provide happiness to all
And peace between nations.

Are children free to walk from school alone
With eyes focused forward,
Not told to fear strangers,
Or concerned with being taken?

Do wars breakout between countries
Over whose beliefs are true,
Over who owns the most land,
Or does such hate exist at all?

Are people judged for how they were born;
A colorblind world
With difference disregarded
And uniqueness praised?

Do they stare out similar telescopes
In wonder of what lies beyond
With hope that the morals are alike;
Not knowing how far we are behind?
I wear a confused heart on my sleeve
But for this I am not ashamed,
For I find it hard to believe
Love has restrictions.

If all were to do the same
Love would come first
And hate would lose its fame
So start by re-locating that heart.

They say it’s not smart
To be so ready to wield
An already weakened heart
That is missing its shield.

The joke is on them
Because it will soon be removed
Much like a priceless gem
Just waiting to be found.
Fly away little Angel,
You’re too special to stay.
Fly away little Angel,
I’ll see you one day.

Fly away little Angel,
He only takes the best.
Fly away little Angel,
In Heaven, you’ll rest.

Fly away little Angel,
Taken early it seems.
Fly away little Angel,
Always in my dreams.

Fly away little Angel,
On Earth we will grieve.
Fly away little Angel,
We wish you hadn’t taken leave.

Fly away little Angel,
You’re headed home now.
Fly away little Angel,
The others you’ll wow.
Dedicated to a friend's late baby daughter.
A steady stream of pain rolled down her cheeks
As I entered her dimly lit room,
On a night I will never forget.

The pain leaped from her face
And harshly landed on the floor,
Creating a salty lake beneath her.

I went to sit down,
And she quickly pulled away her weapon of choice
In a hypocritical effort to not hurt me.

The liquid meant to stay within
Bitterly rested on the edge,
And looked upon us in defeat.

She then pulled out her toolbox
In the shape of a shoebox
And carefully placed the tool next to her other instruments of self-destruction.

Tonight was a razorblade,
Yesterday was a box-cutter,
And I pray tomorrow will be nothing.

I started to speak but bit my tongue,
Because the right words are like lost love,
Barely out of reach, but rarely found.

She claimed it made the pain disappear.
But I knew better, because her face still remained hidden in her hands
And physical wounds don’t amount to mental ones.

She finally looked up and noticed my empathetic face,
As I gazed into her eyes
In wonder of what was going on behind them.

I gently placed her head on my shoulder,
Wiped her tears,
And promised her everything would be alright.


I knew she heard my words but didn’t understand them,
Because she refused to believe life was long,
And that happiness would eventually find her.


We sat silently as thoughts raced through our heads.
We had no reason to talk,
For we knew what the other was thinking.

I looked upon her arm at the once-****** slit,
That would forever remain engraved,
Right next to all the others.

I reminded her that when all appears to be lost it can only get better,
Because a tree that loses its leaves in the fall always grows more in the spring,
And winter is almost over.

A slim smile formed on her face
And realization soon followed.
She finally understood.

Despite each scar and each feeling of uselessness,
There would always be at least one person,
Who finds her beautiful.
Nothing judges more than the mirror positioned above your bathroom sink. The same mirror in which you stand in front of every morning trying to figure out why God couldn’t have made you differently, and of course, attempting to do it for yourself. The same mirror in which you perceive yourself uglier the longer the bathroom light stays on and the very mirror keeping you from flashing your smile upon leaving the room.

It scoffs as you plaster on just enough makeup to make sure people don’t see how you really look, smirks as you search for every piece of unwanted fat, cheers as you proclaim it’s no use trying anymore, and laughs as your tears land in the porcelain sink because then it knows it has won yet again, a victory that costs opponent’s dignity and sense of self-worth.

Confidence can be destroyed in the mere seconds it takes for the reflective screen to lock onto the stranger approaching it, you. Who you are inside is affected first, yet heals last, apparent in the narrow scars found on millions of limbs throughout the world and the too-many empty bodies who ultimately decided who they were at one time was not worth waiting to find out who they were going to be. A concept so disturbing because the pain is caused by the seemingly insignificant object in the smallest room of the house.

The evidence of how much one is affected is a disease on its own, following the infected throughout the day from one mirror to the next until they are finally left standing in front of the very mirror they began their day at. The disease is not a product of imagination, something used as an excuse, or a joke. A large result of our current recession, each and every obsession, the disease known as, depression.

Depression is the lonely man next door holding a gun to his head while weighing the pros and cons of living. As of recent, the cons have outnumbered the pros yet he can’t allow his finger to squeeze the trigger because although the pros are outnumbered, they are still not outweighed.

Depression is the girl across the street slitting her wrists due to the torture she endures every day. She doesn’t know how beautiful she is because everyone tells her otherwise, so she ends her days by staining her carpet red in an attempt to forget everything they say.

Depression is the drug addict willing to try any drug that makes him happy. When asked why he risks his life on thin white lines and sharp crystals he claims it’s worth the risk because a couple hours of happiness is better than none at all.

Depression is the **** victim who can no longer trust because one night a man decided to sprinkle powder in her drink just to make sure his “needs” were met. She has to learn to love again due to a single night gone wrong.

Depression is the woman who just had her third miscarriage who is surrounded by mothers choosing to end their baby’s life before they get a chance to experience what that life has to offer. She can’t seem to figure out why so many escape from something she has wanted for so long.

Depression is the homosexual man who prays to God in wonder of why he was made that way. He is endlessly ridiculed for a decision he did not make and only strives for the same love everyone else seeks. Those certain of his path after death forget the same book declaring this fate also wishes for all to love one another and not doing so will result in the path they feel he is destined to go down.
Call it exaggeration, but a world rid of bathroom mirrors could equal a world rid of self-affliction. A world rid of pinpointing the imaginary problem and the tears following the realization that these problems cannot be fixed. Most importantly, it would rid the world of the belief that you are not good enough.

The next time you look in your bathroom mirror I ask you to look past all the disappointments and missed opportunities. Look past all the misconceptions you have ever had about yourself, because through that you will see someone willing to overcome every obstacle and take on every joy. If you still don’t see that person then look again, because bathroom mirror fog always clears up when you wait long enough.
A spoken-word poem about how we see ourselves in the mirror. Check out the video of my piece on YouTube: Bathroom Mirror Poem
As I grow in age,
I start to realize,
Every day is like a page,
To be read by only one’s eyes.

Every chapter holds a meaning,
Whether implicit or explicit,
Gleaming or demeaning,
Only one can judge it.

The binding holds it all together,
And each staple is a friend,
Making it impossible to weather,
And impossible to bend.

Every book is constantly refined,
Too expensive to afford,
And perfectly aligned,
In the library of the Lord.

— The End —