Mar 2016
Graduation Speech
I wonder what God thinks of me
And how he plans his routes out
And when he in his glory spreads his wonderful grace to those who are devout I wonder if he thinks of me.
But I don't believe in him and I believe he respects that
And I believe that things are meant for me the way my children will remember facts
As staples pushed into the hearts of man
As statues raised in the tower square,
I believe in me.
Now this is my rebirth, my time spent Away learning what was meant to be learned and ingrained in my soul to survive In a society that's supposed to thrive on individuality is worthless compared to the spirituality we all possess, and yes, I believe in me.
When I was younger, the very thing that kept me going was my dependence on the world to avoid me at all costs, so that I could stay blissfully ignorant and I could forget the sorrow. But like everyone else who I grew up with, from the Stevens, the Caseys, the Josephs, the Ashely's, my time before becomin exposed was merely borrowed. And maybe as I stand here today I question my place, and as I beg at someone to look at my face and see past the physical scars and wander my path, and become blessed with the craft to imagine dragons and unicorns though their own witchcraft, yes I believe in you.
There were the beauty queens, turned their hair up to keep the so called common filth from sweeping up beneath them, thinking only that the world couldn't handle their innate..what... Gorgeousness they called it? Called the rest of the world selfish for wanting them on their level, went up the ugliest girl they could find, looked her dead in the eyes and said "yeah you tell em what it's like to be...incomplete".
And she, that darling flower who many wanted but wouldn't tell, because peers would constantly snake their split tongues and feed the idea that angels never fell, that only creatures would bare a face like hers to prove who could be worse, she goes home with 6 freckles overblown and a river streaming over her depressed mask thinking she must have a curse, a sickness that brought this fate upon her, and she's a little less cautious towards patterns of sleep brought on by the might of methamphetamines, before she sleeps she screams "please...I just want peace."
And one night she woke up without moving.
There were the middle ground, where my sister would exist, and they'd sing happily of the next challenge they'd overcome because no one had to make them believe in themselves. But like thieves, the heartless ones took advantage of them, and one by one each lost their sense of self, and what used to be a powerful spirit is now a empty shell kept on the shelf.
Entertainment they became, because that was the moment they didn't have to feel transparent, the eyes could see what the heart would yell, and the ears were capable of the stories they'd tell, but at the end of the day, all anyone ever saw was transparency. Diamonds being shined to earn currency but yet turning into hollow shells so dark, the mind filled up with animosity. And they hate no one but themselves, their self is shattered.
Like butterflies to the flame, they burned out of the sky and became whispers in the night air, vessels for once lost souls to spill into and justify their own demons, and was it all worth it to find a sense of self, constantly questioning "is life fair.." Because we all know what hardships life hands us constantly reminds us that there might no one on the other side of the bed to console us but the stars...
And there in the distance were the movie stars, the most damaged, Ill advised, corrupted, mismanaged, disillusioned, what they saw televised became the mirrors from which their own fantasies about belonging became reality. The outcasts , some call them. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm distraught, I want to believe I'm normal, that maybe someone will assure me, that after the hazing, someone will save me. And when a hero didn't show, they put their faith in something that could flow and block out the hatred, and that dream would become reality, because it's too late for me, they took my creativity, I no longer have my naivety, and the boys tell me I'm only good for my virginity, and the girls tell me I'm only good for my virility. And all for what? So their story could get ostracized on blank lines so kids from the future could read these blatant lies taken out of context, taken from misread times in their lives.
And in the middle of all the angst, it was there I sat and I wrote. I didn't steal the words of Jesus, and I didn't interpret them. I didn't take the virtues of my parents and consume them. I took my blood and tears and let the hatred of not belonging come to me in the form of the words you see here before after 4 years of finding myself. I lost the courage to imagine the images off of paper and instead began to fantasize about my own depictions becoming fantasy..
Was there a happy ending to anyone's misery? Did anyone truly suffer as much as the incrowd? Yeah.. There were those who screamed so loud. Got tired of hearing the other voices controlling their every motion, and refused a simple flow, felt like the world was theirs to command, no longer had their creativity slowed.
But these aren't masses, and I grew out that myself, but I know for a fact that it isn't easy. And it gets harder to forget how it was living under a mastery, using parts of your soul for a makeshift reaction to whatever answers they predicted without predication, you spoke as almost a given response, trained to listen and not voice your own ideas.
Now I ask,
What do you believe in?
I wonder what God thinks of me
And how he plans his routes out
And when he in his glory spreads his wonderful grace to those who are devout I wonder if he thinks of me.
But I don't believe in him and I believe he respects that
And I believe that things are meant for me the way my children will remember facts
As staples pushed into the hearts of man
As statues raised in the tower square,
I believe in me.
Now this is my rebirth, my time spent Away learning what was meant to be learned and ingrained in my soul to survive In a society that's supposed to thrive on individuality is worthless compared to the spirituality we all possess, and yes, I believe in me.
When I was younger, the very thing that kept me going was my dependence on the world to avoid me at all costs, so that I could stay blissfully ignorant and I could forget the sorrow. But like everyone else who I grew up with, from the Stevens, the Caseys, the Josephs, the Ashely's, my time before becomin exposed was merely borrowed. And maybe as I stand here today I question my place, and as I beg at someone to look at my face and see past the physical scars and wander my path, and become blessed with the craft to imagine dragons and unicorns though their own witchcraft, yes I believe in you.
There were the beauty queens, turned their hair up to keep the so called common filth from sweeping up beneath them, thinking only that the world couldn't handle their innate..what... Gorgeousness they called it? Called the rest of the world selfish for wanting them on their level, went up the ugliest girl they could find, looked her dead in the eyes and said "yeah you tell em what it's like to be...incomplete".
And she, that darling flower who many wanted but wouldn't tell, because peers would constantly snake their split tongues and feed the idea that angels never fell, that only creatures would bare a face like hers to prove who could be worse, she goes home with 6 freckles overblown and a river streaming over her depressed mask thinking she must have a curse, a sickness that brought this fate upon her, and she's a little less cautious towards patterns of sleep brought on by the might of methamphetamines, before she sleeps she screams "please...I just want peace."
And one night she woke up without moving.
There were the middle ground, where my sister would exist, and they'd sing happily of the next challenge they'd overcome because no one had to make them believe in themselves. But like thieves, the heartless ones took advantage of them, and one by one each lost their sense of self, and what used to be a powerful spirit is now a empty shell kept on the shelf.
Entertainment they became, because that was the moment they didn't have to feel transparent, the eyes could see what the heart would yell, and the ears were capable of the stories they'd tell, but at the end of the day, all anyone ever saw was transparency. Diamonds being shined to earn currency but yet turning into hollow shells so dark, the mind filled up with animosity. And they hate no one but themselves, their self is shattered.
Like butterflies to the flame, they burned out of the sky and became whispers in the night air, vessels for once lost souls to spill into and justify their own demons, and was it all worth it to find a sense of self, constantly questioning "is life fair.." Because we all know what hardships life hands us constantly reminds us that there might no one on the other side of the bed to console us but the stars...
And there in the distance were the movie stars, the most damaged, Ill advised, corrupted, mismanaged, disillusioned, what they saw televised became the mirrors from which their own fantasies about belonging became reality. The outcasts , some call them. Maybe I'm crazy, maybe I'm distraught, I want to believe I'm normal, that maybe someone will assure me, that after the hazing, someone will save me. And when a hero didn't show, they put their faith in something that could flow and block out the hatred, and that dream would become reality, because it's too late for me, they took my creativity, I no longer have my naivety, and the boys tell me I'm only good for my virginity, and the girls tell me I'm only good for my virility. And all for what? So their story could get ostracized on blank lines so kids from the future could read these blatant lies taken out of context, taken from misread times in their lives.
And in the middle of all the angst, it was there I sat and I wrote. I didn't steal the words of Jesus, and I didn't interpret them. I didn't take the virtues of my parents and consume them. I took my blood and tears and let the hatred of not belonging come to me in the form of the words you see here before after 4 years of finding myself. I lost the courage to imagine the images off of paper and instead began to fantasize about my own depictions becoming fantasy..
Was there a happy ending to anyone's misery? Did anyone truly suffer as much as the incrowd? Yeah.. There were those who screamed so loud. Got tired of hearing the other voices controlling their every motion, and refused a simple flow, felt like the world was theirs to command, no longer had their creativity slowed.
But these aren't masses, and I grew out that myself, but I know for a fact that it isn't easy. And it gets harder to forget how it was living under a mastery, using parts of your soul for a makeshift reaction to whatever answers they predicted without predication, you spoke as almost a given response, trained to listen and not voice your own ideas.
Now I ask,
What do you believe in?
