Rocks and hard places,
that’s all there is…
for me.

I twist and turn
and rebel, and shatter
against all kinds of
rocks-and-hard-places.

Never a soft place
to land,
never at peace enough
to just let go
and BE what THEY
want of me.

I try to lift up and fly,
but these wings
cannot expand.
They’re weighted down
by bricks of
disappointments
(mostly of self),
and breaches,
manipulations,
and betrayals,
and I can’t quite
catch a proper
wind.

No matter what is ever said,
no matter what is ever done,
it has never been
or ever shall be simply
“good enough”.

“Good enough,
worthwhile,
great job,
‘ya done good”…
these are not the words
I see
in the cold, alarming
stares
pointed right at me.

Why is the absolute
state of Death seem
ever so much more
appealing,
than
waking each and every
day to merely feel
lost and astray?

Rocks and hard places,
bloodied bruises,
shredded faces…
wounds no one see
‘cause outside,
I’m a painted shell,
and I wear it well.
Isn’t that the point?
The game goes
like this:
the worse you feel
on the inside,
the more outwardly
beautiful you
must become
(hiding in plain sight).

So you find yourself
answering a question
with a question:

“Are you ok, you seem
so deeply troubled
and dismay?”

“Yes, but do I look good?”

‘Cause in the end,
THAT’S what people
will see.


-by Mercurychyld
Copyright 28 Jan 15