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  Dec 2014 Sara
Devon Webb
We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.

We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.
It's worth it though.
Sara Nov 2014
Maybe some people are meant to be unhappy,no matter what.
Even though it seems their life is one that many might envy of,
they're still feeling like they are being chained by the ordinariness of life
and perpetually wishing the wanted adventure
that so many seek but so little find.
The constant wondering about what it's like to be whole again
is eating them away
and they can't understand why this void is always coming back,
even when they're happy,
even when they seem happy,
even though they're actually been pretending the whole time.
That's the thing about life-
some are predestinated to be reckless souls
content with the every aspect of life,
while others only dream of being that close to what they might refer as happiness.
Nothing is sufficient
and everything is seemingly empty
and the help is oh so needed, constantly echoing
through every fiber of their being.

— The End —