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This isn't a poem, it's a thank you to a couple of people who reposted my poem "WORK IN PROGRESS". Thank you Perry and thank you to FallenAngel33. This makes me want to keep writing my poems and keep sharing.


❤♥
I love you guys.
I am a work in progress.
A half-baked pie and a runny omelet.
A party-shaded masterpiece and a book waiting to be resumed.
5 nails painted and 1 earring put in.
A marathon half-ran and a bearly put together bed.

I am a work in progress.
A page colored outside the lines.
The only remembered lines of a song.
A site without a link and a cut cake.
A sunset on a cloudy day.

I am a work in progress.
I am not a bad thing.
I am not a good thing.
I am not pretty.
I am not ugly.

I am a work in progress.
I am not tall.
I am not short.
I am not stupid.
I am not dumb.

I am a work in progress.
I am me and you are you and we are perfect.
4th line-that's what she said
this is where i write my words,
words of angst,
words of depression,
words of imagination,
words of me,
words of you,
words of what i wish,  
words of what is,
words,
words,
words,
words.
My friends who keep me sane,

the ones with laughter that chimes louder than any church bells

The people with amber, ombre, raven, ruby, teal, and sandy hair.

With sparkling eyes and warm hearts,

comforting hugs and lighthearted remarks.

Accompanied by the giving of equal parts and the openness of our hearts.

We go through each day together merrily.

But at night, we battle with our minds over common ground.

Tomorrow, however, we start anew.

From the tap…tap...tap of our feet down the empty hallways after eighth,

to the face times that relieve us of our worries and daily stresses.

We glide through the woeful emotions and dramatic labyrinths,

these of which are caused by high schools many intricate obstacles.

They are the people with whom I share my deepest secrets and greatest happiness.

Unique people that say “what’s poppin’”, “this is true”, “meeee”,

Peculiar people that will howl song lyrics in hallways bursting with people,

but cannot, however, say how they truly feel sometimes.

The people with the brightest of smiles, but the darkest of hearts.

We break us down only to put on a Broadway standard performance for everyone but us.  

We don’t have to be cheery around us.

We each have our many emotional support items.

From rings, to sweaters, to jackets, to blankets, to pillows, to pictures.

They are the people who are mine,

while I am theirs.

These are not my friends,

But my family.

They are the ones that make sure I will not let the mask of a perfectly sound mind slip.

Wonderful people who know how to make me white and not gray,

They are the memories and inside jokes and photographs and films and most importantly,

they do not care what race, sexuality or gender, or anything I may identify as.

They keep me being me.

My favorite people who keep me right in the head.
Acrylic, watercolor, oil, pigment, ink, fresco.

The brushes gliding across the paper like Goblin King Jareth in the ballroom.

The colors are beautifully radiant, even more so than the sun.

The water blends with the paints, invoking a visually appealing swatch of color.

A shade placed with a tint, bringing forth a new and equally unique hue.

The colors spiral like Edgar’s mind.

Laying colors down to make a masterpiece,

leaving me at peace.

When the piece dries, it creates a whole new world.

If you’re lucky, your piece is presented to the world.

You feel like Picasso showing off how talented you are.

Then you start over fresh.

The new sketches that you hate,

you feel like a four-year-old scribbling.

The gestures, the movement, the eraser marks that are so prominent.

The marks stand out like the Berlin wall.  

You will try and try and try until you start over.

You give up for now,

until you start anew again.

A million blank pages pile over with your failures.

The failures are endless, so you give up.

Until tomorrow,

when you start again,

     and again,

            and again.
I stand, but she doesn’t speak. It isn’t because she doesn’t want to, she just can’t.

She's “asleep”,

but I know that isn't it.

I know we came to this hospital because they couldn't “fix” her at the other one.

This is the fifth time her heart has seized, I know this is the last time I’ll see her “alive”, but I can't speak myself.

I'm embarrassed and awkward;

    And I hate myself for it.

I don't tell her I love her, I don't tell her it's okay if she leaves, I don't say goodbye.

    And I hate myself for it.

Mama says she can hear us, but I know she's trying to make it better. Jayden accepts her statement indifferently. I look at him and plead for him to say something first.

To say goodbye, to say anything because I don't want to be the first.

Mama asks if I don't speak because I'm heartbroken. I tell her that's it,

because if I do tell her, I will accept and acknowledge the fact that I hate myself for it.

I want to say something,

     I want her to hear me,

          I want to hear her laugh,

                I want to say something,

                     I want her to hug me and say it will be better tomorrow,

                           I want to say something.

But I can’t. And I hate myself for it.

Because I know her soul has left and this is an empty shell that is only “alive” because of that stupid machine that keeps talking.

That stupid machine that beeps.

     And beeps.

           And beeps.

It will forever be imprinted within me, with the smell of that bleak room, along with that hate and bitterness. That doesn’t even measure to that stupid soulless self-love of me.

That stupid hatred that bubbles like a bathtub overflowing if I even think of her and how brutally big-headed I was.

The problem is that I don’t hate her, I hate me and my elite mindset that is egotistical and so incredibly egocentric.

So vain, so incredibly vain I am.

I’m horrible.

      And I hate myself for it.

Then we leave and I didn’t even say goodbye!

— The End —