I forget too often that not everyone sees me the way I see me;
Not everyone knows there to be a bleeding heart sinking solemnly behind my ribcage
Nor the rattle that my skull makes from too many poor decisions,
The scars on my knees and legs that tab a memory of a something somewhere in the history that is mine,
The lack of lobe that inhibits my passions for specificity,
The anger that bubbles within my veins when I neglect the rose bushes I've slept in for so long,
The tuft of hair that throws itself to the wind, proving to be the small stubborn part of me,
The knowledge that has escaped me with the miles I burn on four wheels,
The physical pain that plagues my valuable parts that become less and less worth something everyday,
The weight that overcomes me sometimes when I feel myself through waves of gravity,
The form I place to my inner and outer self: nothing good, smart, or attractive.
I suppose the mirror has darkened over the years, the veil has been placed lower over my eyes so most of the view is felt through shadows that are drawing me day in and day out, begging me to make a choice.
I suppose that it's not the way I'm perceived though, I ought to remember.