Wednesday, October 21, 2009

journal eighteen
i am raw beauty in the essence. for i do not sleep i do not eat i only mimic what the world has asked of me. mother always had this air to her the kind you find around those of a queen when they walk their gardens out in the moonlit paths of morning lilies hung loosely from their veins of weeping willows tightened from their stringed roots. she was the one i called mother. she was what i saw as beauty. i am the one she bore when she was quiet young i had nothing of hers i had none of her faults she had many. i only wish to own them to say i knew her well but we never spoke to each other. only though photographs she is long gone now. as i live on the outskirts of my imagery in the lack of color the disbelief of time. tick tock tick tock the clocks are calling me out from my sleep. nightmares of faces i do not know women in gowns so delicately hung from their bodies of white color of pure color. sunken raccoon eyes awake me from my deep slumber as i am handed a small mirror. looking upon it i see no face just a weeping girl she looked quite like me. he eyes were black underneath her face round lips like rough rocks along shore lines of soft deep yellow sand blue eyes dulled down to that of a pair of worn down skies. i weeped for quite sometime dropping the mirror to fall like leaves do in the calm autumn springs i hear so much of but have never seen. tears lash down mirrors break with no sounds words come in bold letters on walls of gray. small trickles of crimson cascades down my palms as i push them onto my forehead with light smokeless breathes try to forget i moan hold your tongue let these pains be your punishment let the world fun of you. drops aside i hear them fall in such quite rooms as i lay on the cold washed down wood floors. i am not raw beauty. i am ugly straight down to my core. make me forget make us believe that we have something special about ourselves even though it is a figment of our imaginations a pigment of color regretful words that only coil onto our hearts that in these days are held together with glass seams that fall apart when touched upon. i can never be like mother even though in reality she was just as lifeless just as structureless. the difference is only that when spoken upon she reflected what she was given she hid no shame in others eyes. she deceived me. mother one day i will grow on your faults.

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