In this place where we lived there were
no doors, every room had a mirror.
            A reflection of what was, is.

And each was unique to the observation
that was seen beyond the tinted
                                            frame of creation.

                  Some places were, could be,
not a complete reflection of what was
contorted and beyond the conciseness
                                           of tangibility.

For some places were either hairline fractured,
on purpose or by mistake, most of these had
                                                                ­ warnings.
            
                         "REALITY DERUTCARF RETNE TON OD,

All who entered these were doing so at there
                                         own health and life..

Some did it for the buzz,  some weren't lucky..
         The Mirror Collective,
that's a posh word for reflective reconstitutes.

Ladies and gents that fixed the flaws,
                         fragmented reflections that
could lead to either two version of reality..

An obituary of an abattoir,  
where the breaks even though hairline
were like papercuts on the flesh.
                   And where they stood is where
the pieces collected upon each other..

Some rooms were purposely fractured,
           for those who broke the rules
were kept in shard rooms..
     These were places where others of less
reputable reflections were kept.


                             Solitary confinement,
there was just a jagged piece of mirror left,
enough space for a paper plate to be left.
Once there sentence was completed  
           The mirror collective would be called
to reconstitute the whole mirror..

If they were of sound constitution, not mad...
          
Then they were reintegrated in to the society..
                                  What they didn't realise is
the lights of different frequencies
were purposely shone within there room.
            Nearly all were unseen to the eye,
but were used to program them,
sublimely to have a more compatible persona.  

Me I wants like those others, my reflection was
                  always polished. I would enter
a reflection and be the person who'd stepped
through a moment before.

We were a society mirrored on the refection
that everything was meant to be perfect.

         But what we didn't realise that
every refection is distorted no matter how
                              perfect we think it is.

And the perfection we looked upon,
             was cracked beyond our contemplation.
We were just slaves to the mirror of our own
                                                                ­              egos..



But what ever you do don't look at the refection
staring behind you,
                        you looked....

                                                     ­          I'm sorry.....

This is my poetry persona
I don't own her
She's law unto herself

my mother's trust issues are leaking into my chest
and
my father's tendency to forfeit humans for his solidarity
sometimes
I feel my persona bending to accommodate them
both.

I starred at my broken mask,
It shouldn’t be such a difficult task,
I should let the world see me for who I really was.
They say scars make us beautiful,
They say be you,
I felt that didn’t ring true,
They say people could read us like books on a shelf,
People didn’t know the real me I said.
My persona was widespread,
I smiled behind a broken assortment of tears,
Held back and caged by fears,
I felt like whoever I was wasn’t enough,
I was never good enough,
Not loved enough,
Not cared for enough,
Not smart enough,
Not beautiful enough,
Not thin enough,
Not understood enough,
Not enough, just not enough.
I just stood there empty,
But half full,
I wanted to dream again,
I wanted to love again,
I wanted to laugh again,
I wanted to feel enough again,
Once again  I wanted my life to be steady,
I wanted to smile at my fears,
I had been hiding for all these years.
This, this is me.
Tonight, I want to fall asleep,
And not crying or upset,
It’s pain I want to forget,
I must confess,
That I want to fall asleep knowing that I’m enough.

The bar.
New personas,
Rare from near to afar.
Tangling in the smoldering lights,
With haste.

Never knowing what you want.
You mean one thing and say another. Longing for attention yet you won't bother.
Bother with honesty, bombarded with hypocrisy.
These are the things my eyes sees. The things my heart feels are real. Feels real to **** the pain inside.
The truth is we both may not know what we want.
Flaunting a fake persona to get what we want.
The information layed out says one thing, and your words another.

An artist too lazy to make any art
So what am I?
The sleepy commitment holding your hand in public places
An enormous gratitude lounging in between spaces with a stain on her shirt
Always seeking to be the next big thing

A stoic
Unable to process any other philosophy
that doesn't kiss me when I'm nervous
Lights turning on in the afternoon
And the warm glow of knowing people are inside
There
Ready to open up the door and invite you into the individual smells that occupy their reality

I am I-don't-remember-the-city-anymore girl
Sterile buildings and antiseptic coast
Are both memory and fiction
I am everything's-sort-of-familiar and yet exactly obscure
A contrarian careful to never admit that everything
Will make sense with enough persuasion
In the corners of my mind sits a woman
Smoothing out creases of my brain like the folds on bed sheets
Or the wrinkles in a shirt
And I allow her to because I love her
And I believe that what she does is affection
And maybe I'm right
Or maybe I'm wrong and I was never an artist
But something else entirely because that's so much easier