The illusion some protray just to all be the same and want the same

  Subliminals, the media, and soical sites..
  
No one wants to be the same and treated different from others
  
So why portray this illusion
  
Be different, be who you are, display your imagine and inner feelings
  
Be happy with who you are..
  
The illusion..that's what they want you to protray!

An ashtray full of buts smoked away by conversations of the past.
I'll show you open wounds that can't be healed,
If you tell me secrets that, til then, they had last.
Hang up those shoes with holes of adventure,
on the subsiquencial line to nothingness.
It's not as if we'll spawn again,
you've already left me to forget,
but you can not pretend that none of this was worth anything,
that you wouldn't come back if it hadn't gone to ****.
You can't just blame me for the things that you did!
Untied laces,
Missing pieces,
empty bowls and missing lighters.
unforgotten memories eating at me,
the person i was taunting the person I've become.
I've always heard the weak pull down the strong.
these inevitably destructive visions,
unfinished cigarettes,
half empty bottles flat in the morning,
stolen clothing and broken glass.
I doubt whatever this seems to be,
the feeling that hits me from the past,
a confused, somehow nostalgic me.
Yet, everything is better now,
no one to be harmed by and no one to soak up disrespect from,
only a perfect protray of everything I lacked before,
and this.. this is what I've been in need of,
a reliability that I love and they may love me in return.

I think too much on the outskirts of life,
never in tune with the waves and how they
sway back and forth like they're making a point
to give you something you are never capable of returning-
it makes me think the ocean has a sense of empathy
and a sense of humor that we will never understand.
I will never understand the way life blanks me out
the way boxes are made around our souls
and the way minds have the ability to think
way too many times a second which leaves me
empty-
not being able to picture the words I want to formulate
not being able to grip my sanity around the edges
of the skyline long enough to see the sunset-
these things are all optional
mandatory was never in my nature
and my stature has always been tall
which is why I stand in cities and see my own reflection in them.
The destruction and peace and corruption
living inside these streets of myself
but everything you need is capable to be found somehow.
Nothing is ever black and white-
which is why I see others in every rainbow
because everyone is flamboyant at best.
When the light hits their eye just right
and I see a sparkle of life in another-
I'm always reading others.
Spending time learning their pages
so I can write a synopsis out of their smile someday.
I am a writer, and on my best days a poet.
But most of the time these words are just a dishonest
depiction of what I'm feeling inside-
the things I don't really have the guts to say.
Every time I put my fingers to these keys
it's just a shade lighter of the stream of conscious
that likes to paint dark pictures in my mind.
Everything is subjective at best.
The fingers I use to touch these keys
and write these words are just machine
and I am the one holding the controls
until I lose control again
and I'm back searching for the consistency
I've never really had.
Because life doesn't tell you it's plans-
It comes to your house at 1am
and doesn't leave
not until you're hallucinating from exhaustion.
It sends you a 4am "you up" text
and expects *** after the first date.
It never asks how you're feeling
so you just have to wonder if it really gives a ****.
But life doesn't ******* give a ****-
it takes your words as a disservice
and makes promises it knows it can't keep.
I am a promise never kept-
always fleeting, always changing
mind never consistent enough for normalcy
privilege was never in my human nature
and eggshells have always been the shoes
I wear upon my feet
so I try my best on most days not to crack them-
not to worsen the shards that peg my soles.
I am wandering
constantly fleeting from the feelings
I never want to admit are there.
They are there-
somewhere in a place I haven't been in a while
where cob webs collect and the dust settles-
I have made a mess out of what remains
there is no consolation for me
just a collection of art most people don't understand
with inflection and tone that protray my words
in a way to which I hope people with grasp onto
I'm living for others-
to write the words they do not have the guts to say
to pin down the insecurities they bottle up
to let the elephant in the room
put on the best ******* show it can-
I would like to be the savior of someone's sanity
as seeing as I cannot be my own.
I will flourish and grow someday
but in the meantime I will use my light
to feed others until they feel strong again.
Alone is the dark corner feeling
the pit of your stomach anxiety ridden emotion
so burn the desire to feel it down to the ground
smother it with your blanket ray of light
and watch what grows from the ashes.
I did.

The script were reading,
As we act out our lives.
As we read between the lines
When the curtain slowly opens
We act out our lies.
We cannot protray a hope,
From a wishing well.
I cannot  betray my feelings by show and tell.
I don't know what happened,
But the feelings gone.
I tried to get it back but it left me alone.
I can't take the lead,
In which I cannot see.
And I can know longer read,
What I don't feel.
Time cannot paint a portrait  of the way it use to be.
Please don't put on those sad eyes when you look at me.
But a play always ends,
As sad as it may be.
And the curtain always closes,
As it will,
For you and me.
I don't know what happened,
But the feelings gone.
I tried to get it back but it left me alone.