Cramped, lost, and crying in my own worn out body,
with loss of hope to become somebody.

Short is this vivid pain,
too long is this bright ornament,
until I finally see the point of it.

No longer numb yet still caught in a gasp,
until I finally connect the dots and filled in the gaps.

28 strings hanging from above, teetering and creaking with each of my steps.

The wood below feels as if sand seeps into my skin, making the next heavier, and heavier.

When did the world decide to become so clever?

The marionette is unnamed although the disease is written clearly across the fogged bathroom mirror.

I avert my eyes from the truth as though I could never decipher.

A slap to the face and a fluid ounce of love is all it took,
two floating hands to fix my gaze upon all I could, my own life book.

I suddenly could hear the willows whipping and dripping wet in the rain outside the brook, I was no longer deaf to the pain I caused and took.

The mental games we play are never far from the outsides the lines of our life's coloring book.

Climb to the tallest line of the page with your grappling hook.

It only takes one outside and unbiased look and the keys to the castle are unhooked.