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 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
T R Wingfield
It's my own reflection of which I'm most terrified
Because it shows me exactly who I appear to be
It may not look like who I think I am, but it's the only me the world can see

Now it's been years and years since the man in the mirror
Resembled the man I know I can be,
But it won't be long until that monster is gone,
And the world only sees who I know I can be
 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
T R Wingfield
I thought of myself
As a phoenix
Set aflame

Now
I'm just
Ashes and Dust

Look at the mess that I've made.
I have a tendency to self-analyze. And, as often is the case, I am my own harshest critic. Often I tear myself down; sometimes I strip myself bare. I retrace my failures and the consequences of my own poor decisions. This habit is similar to prodding a canker sore with your tongue. It's painful, and does nothing to heal the would, yet it is almost impossible to refrain from doing. The nagging pain of an open sore is contrasted to the acute pain of direct contact;  but there is relief from the constant irritation in the brief intensity of addressing these sores directly. (Though counter-intuitive) It is, somehow, soothing. Perhaps by proving it could be worse. Perhaps it's just licking a wound.
 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
Q
Yeah No
 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
Q
You talk I'll type, no
that's not right
you’re not my dictator and
I'm not your scribe

I love you I hate you
neither seems right
get out of my head since
you're already out of sight

It was your fault it was mine
we laughed I cried
You said you'd be my sun, remember?
but I'd rather hug the night
 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
T R Wingfield
The only line
I've ever heard that worked...

"Hey girl...
            Bring your fine *** over here and let me tell you some lies"

Honesty is always the best policy I guess.
True story
 Dec 2016 RoseMarie
Mr Q
Between my fingers, I grasp a rose
with petals of diamond and leaves of emerald.
Fragile as glass and strong as stone,
Its beauty stands alone.

I hold it tightly and my fingers bleed,
dotting the ground with ruby seeds.
Perhaps they'll sprout and begin life anew
but they will be imperfect and crude,
Compared to the perfection that is in my hand
A diamond in the rough
A speck of stardust among a billion grains of sand.

— The End —