The Poem Of Me

I’ve painted a sea of perfection. Perfection that I force myself to be. Being everything and nothing all at the same time. Time is wasted when you don’t put your skills into practice. Practice makes perfect or so they say. Saying isn’t the same thing as believing. Believing is something that I haven’t found in myself for a long time. 

25 years I’ve lived. 303 months I’ve survived. A mere 9,218 days. 

This life is the only one I’ve got so why spend it in misery?

I am wayward. I am confused. I am lost. I am brave. I am confident. I am sad. I am happy. I am me. Bold and beautiful. Salt and sugar. 

I’ve become a rusty old robot and my parts have started to fall apart. I became what was expected. Bending over commands until I was hypotonic. I’ve been poisoned by influence. A prisoner in cold steal and idealism. 

This isn’t my end. My ashes have formed back together. I am a Phoenix. Phenomenal. 2016 is my revival. 

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