We are not, who we are

We are not, who we are.
Well I can speak for myself. I am not who you think I am if we have never met. If all you have to view me is this tiny window of social media. this is not who I am. It’s barely the surface. You want to know who I am?

- I never wear makeup or sexy cloths.
- I have braces.
- My boyfriend and I have been together for 10 years.
- I’m polyamorous.
- I constantly carry a broken heart for some man who has moved on.
- I’m obsessed with documentaries.
- I’m afraid of people & making connections.
- I don’t & never smoked, drank or did drugs.
- I burry myself in work “workaholic”
- I’d much rather sit in a quiet corner and read a book then go to a party.
- Crowds scare me.
- I financially support both my parents and numerous other people in my life.
- I’m a nymphomaniac that is to scared to be intimate with anybody that I have not known closely for over a year because I fall in love with anyone I let inside of me.
- I wear out all my partners.
- I’m obsessed with growth and productivity
- I spend more time at Lowe’s & Home Depot then any other place outside of my house
- I don’t respond to my social media emails because they give me anxiety.
- My time is the most precious thing I can give someone.
- Punctuality and communication is very important to me.
- I’m very direct into the point. I don’t like playing games or beating around the bush. I have no desire in sugarcoating things.
- I keep busy to stay just ahead of my constant depression.
- I never hold a grudge, I always love somebody no matter how many times they hurt me, my love is unconditional once received.
- I have lost two lovers to suicide and one to a car accident as well as too many friends to list.
- My brother died of a heroin overdose a couple years ago.
- I’m almost 40 years old.
- I would love to have a child but my body is not letting me.
- I am a clean freak, obsessed with organization, time management, manifestation boards, schedules and goal sheets.
- I crave consistency, I don’t like change.
- I’m not secretive.
- I am a insomniac.
- I am agoraphobic.
- I’m not religious.
- I’m weak.
- I’m afraid.
- I’m cautious.
- I’m lonely.
- I’m a real person.
- I’m a open book if anyone cares to read, and I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember.

Reverie

 There’s a time to remember and that time is now. To look upon the past and the times of wow. To look into the future and to be determined. To know of your past and your fortune. To see all the love laughter and lies. To realize your life and all the things you strive. To encompass your passion and hold it within, to discover yourself and follow it through to the end. Don’t not forget who it is that you are,  for often it seems you have traveled far. And lost your self up on the sands of your past. Getting lost in the moments that don’t last. And the only way that others could see, is if you write them down in reverie.

Breath

 With each breath I begin to open my eyes,  peering into the darkness to discover all the things that have brought me here to this moment. With you, the part of my future that I did not know existed at the time of this writing. But you are here, with me right now. In the space in this moment. Holding hands, sharing breath, locking eyes in our minds. With you sharing the space with me in this moment, we are in mortal. You bring me back from the dead, you are my link  to the present. You’re my moment of now. The time that I have lost for it had not yet happened. And I appreciate that. Thank you. Thank you for being there, thank you for caring. Thank you for reading, thank you for sharing.  For we all live our meanings and mine is Art, or without it I would fall apart, so as I fall into the  land of death, I’m giving you my words with my last breath.

Bad choices

I would bleed for miles if I could just see your smiles crack through with the light of dawn. And I would long for your song to tickle my ear and remove my fear that I would be left alone. As your morning Moan caresses my soul, I learned to steer clear of the obstacles in our path. But it's perhaps because I'm not good at math but I still continue to trip over my own mistakes that begins to bend and break me. When you see, all I want is to be perfect and free, and have you seen me for the perfect being that is me. Learn not to take things so personally, for with your insecurities, you are destroying me. I try to stand up tall but then I fall as  I raise my head to the sky as tears filled my eyes and I can only cry as I struggle to see the sharp object that can release me. But no, I cannot do that, for I promised it would not be. So even though I know the pain would release me, as I see the blood flow at my feet, not as a cry for help but as a release, I digress, and it will be our progress that I learn to channel my pain in other ways. This has broken my heart and I fallen apart, and parts of this we have seen since the start, but yet we still wade through. Is it because it is new, or is this love true? And is it true that you love me as much as I love you? But it is my mistakes that break and feed your need for answers. Which plants the seed for I must be judged and not trusted because my past was robust and my ignorance leaks into present tense. You think I could make amends and with my intelligence move forward and out of the swamp of my past decisions. I have read my life script and I have made my own revisions, and it is my mission to show you the woman that I have buried under bad choices. For the sake of what is easy I have listen to the voices, and they have poisoned my right for a pure future. But if you give me another chance as the many you have given, I will prove to you that a life with me is worth living.

Expectations

 There are so many things to do in life, so many beauties to hold and to create. To grasp and to give fourth. So much to love, to experience and understand. It’s hard to encompass all of this up on the short time that we are given upon this planet. With our hands growing week as the years progress, and her eyesight feeding, our senses are dulled. But not our passion, not our desire, not if we don’t allow it. We will live forever. With the words of our past  and the things that we have placed upon this earth. For the forever, as long as our name is on the lips of the living. Forever, a mortal. We die twice, one when you breathe your last breath, Second when the last person speaks your name.  We live, we love, we try, we die. We do the best we can in the means of what we are given. To offer what we feel is necessary to the ones we love and perfect strangers.  But who is it who puts these expectations upon us. Is it the world around us, our peers, our parents, our siblings, strangers or ourselves. To whom do we answer to in the end. To what is the success or failure of our life. I suppose with everyone it is different. With me it would be with lack of placing everything into this world that I possibly can. It’s a constant flow of movement. And saddens me each time I forget to communicate. I get lost in myself and in situations at hand. As many do.  But to be lost is not my purpose. It does not meet my expectations.

7

 The magic number seven, to so many it means so much. To others nothing. As does anything in this world. Depends on your viewpoint and what you take from it. Your experiences and how you build it. Your perception in how you view it. I’m here up on the seventh day of the new year, looking upon my most recent years of the past. And recorded. Disappointed. As they have been gracious! They have been amazingly precocious. Preciously spontaneous. Discovering this past lost  upon the day of seven, I rushed to meet up with myself. Defined myself here and unravel my tongue. On rolling the words into the world that have bottled up in my throat. Creating congestion of thoughts and freedom of mind. To not have the flow, to be controlled by the lack of use. It was I who had created this abuse and now I am removing the dam. Allowing the words from my brain to flow out my throat along my tongue upon your ear. Fry am here. Upon the now, upon the day of seven.

Lost in years

 I have rediscovered, that I have lost myself these last few years. But where was I? What was it that kept me away. Kept me so busy? I cannot recognize my reflection from my memory of who I was just moments ago. But here, now, in the present. Standing before myself. I am strong. And it was my past that has built these bricks, been my mortar which has created the structure  that encompasses my soul. My soul, this is what I speak. It was here blood upon these pages for many years in the past. But has escaped till just recently, refound. Sometimes I often feel that this is my therapy to hear the sound of my voice as I speak my heart to paper. It is the thing that has made me found,  as I run across the field to once again meet up with myself. I’m no longer lost. Here I am, exactly where I left me.

Sand

You only see a fraction of who I am,
too much sand in your eyes,
too many lies poured into you
until you learned to call them truth.

You cannot see the shape of your own face
when you are trapped behind it.

So I pace back and forth,
wishing you could see me
without translating me
through everything
you were taught to believe.

I cry because I want to tear the lie open,
pull every false thread loose,
and weave the truth
back into the fabric of my youth.

I want to braid it
with everything I survived—
every scar,
every mistake,
every piece of myself
I was taught to hide.

I want to stand inside the wreckage and say:

Look.

This is what remained.
This is what became stronger.
This is what refused to disappear.

We have all cried.
We have all buried pieces of ourselves.
We have all wounded ourselves
trying to become acceptable
to people who were bleeding too.

We mistake pain for punishment,
shame for truth,
silence for peace.

The sand keeps falling
into our eyes,
into our mouths,
into every mirror,
until the disguise becomes so familiar
we forget there was ever
a face beneath it.

We look through scratched glass
and swear what we see is real.

But maybe our vision
is only the shape
of everything that hurt us.

Maybe every scar became a lens.
Maybe every betrayal left a color behind.
Maybe the world isn’t what we see—

maybe we see
what happened to us.

And the pain inside,
the thing someone called ugly,
broken,
wrong,
sin—

maybe it is not proof
that something is wrong with us.

Maybe it is evidence.

A burden, yes,
but also a doorway.

Because what is truth
beneath all that pride?

What are we
when we strip away
the pigment,
the masks,
the stories,
the beautiful lies
we tell ourselves to survive?

Maybe truth
is not something we find.

Maybe it is what remains
when there is finally
nothing left to hide behind.

And maybe the hardest thing
we will ever have to see

is ourselves—

without the sand.