What can be said,
that hasn't been said already?
What can be done,
that hasn't been tried already?

It's the same white page,
though a different seat each time.
It's the same old feeling,
escaping through a different rhyme.

It's like the earth's rotation-
spinning endlessly.
It's like generations of music-
remembered timelessly.

Hitting every roadblock,
I keep fighting through.
Trying to find some way,
to release my truth.

What is truth?
Is it the actions we take,
or the words we break?

Is it what we lie about,
to ourselves?
Is it what we hide,
from others?

11 definitions exist,
to explain it's meaning,
yet none are the ones,
we are searching for.

"I'll believe it, when I see it"-
does that make it true?
"Actuality or actual existence"-
we don't see all that there is.

When I set about to find
the truth I've been chasing,
I look to know who I am,
in the face of this world.

I look to find answers,
that will keep me going;
I have chased truth,
and it's face is ugly.

Through the foggy grey's,
Of freshly instilled,
Yet old insecurities,
I stay the course.

Whispers of doubt,
Deafen all other audio,
As it lingers amongst,
Every concious thought.

Uncertainty is permanent,
Placed by your words,
Only to be removed,
When actions of truth prevail.

Although reunited,
Segregation is prominent,
My heart aches knowing,
You denied me security.

Once again, I find myself here,
hating the reflection in the mirror.

It brings tears to my eyes,
gazing upon my tiny size.

I once had some weight,
and it made me feel great.

Now, I am skin and bones,
riddled with different tones.

It saddens my soul,
that I can't feel whole.

I am ashamed, of what I see,
I wish that it wasn't me.

I want this cycle to end,
I want to break the trend.

How do I accept who I am,
this person they call Jam.

I look, but I don't see...
I don't see my reflection.
A stranger stands before me,
staring back deeply into my eyes.

I only see a woman...
a woman who isn't me.
Her skin is so tight to her face,
she is tiny like a child.

Lines are imprinted,
around her dry lips.
Dark circles encompass,
each end of her eyes.

Her cheekbones protrude-
the light hangs on the edge.
Her smile is weak and faded;
who is this person I see?

I don't want to look,
she saddens my heart.
I don't want to see reality,
staring into the mirror.

As young children,
we most desired toys.
How precious they were,
on every occasion that gave.

We cherished our toys,
for the joy they brought.
Showing them off to others,
so proud of what we had.

But, eventually...
we grew tired of them.
Sometimes quickly,
they became worn and old.

Our interest elsewhere..
all the new toys out there.
Nobody wants used toys,
they're no good anymore.

It has to be shiny and better,
that's much more exciting.
So we discard our old toys,
after we've played them out.

She is obsessed with toys,
and I am her doll...
but now I am old and worn,
and playtime is over.