Monday, November 8, 2010

Mother, Can I Be Pretty Too?

I am supposed to be a cosmetic prodigy.
I am born to be the most beautiful human being that you have ever laid your eyes upon.
I must create a painted face.
I must have a raw face.
I need to make my hair noticeable.
I need to make my lips plump.
I need to have rosy cheeks and a curvy, yet slim physique.

I am supposed to be a confidentiality.
Every person wants in.
The everyday paparazzi.
The everyday rumour.
The hearsay of my life, whispered through every hall I pass down.
My life, controlled by people who do not know even my name.
My rights, ripped away from my body.

I am supposed to be an intellectual.
How I must yearn for a higher education.
I need to be placed in the corporate machine.
This is how creators are born.
This is how successful people are born.
I must step onto the conveyor belt.
This is what my family wants.
I must take my place in line for debt and embarrassment.

I am supposed to be addicted.
I am the very definition of sober-lacking.
I am the contents of which you journey.
A get away, a path to a door from problems, I am.
Problems that we do not face.
Let go.
Substance has our souls.
Like babies, we are born addicted.
I must shiver from withdrawal.
I must cringe to the knowledge of human awareness.
This is the only place that I must go.
They would never want me to stop the numbing.

I am supposed to be Christ.
I must worship.
Never must I will to go to Hell.
I cannot set my own beliefs and goals.
I cannot set my own regulations, my own commandments.
Never must I believe in anyone else.
Love can only go to the beauteous creator.
Never will my family ever come first.
He gives me all, I never work for myself.
I never live for myself, nor anyone else.
Only Him.

I am.
I am.

With all of this weight, I just cannot fit the slim mold.

I will be awake and suffer with my insecurities.
I will be my own teacher.
I am an architect.
I will reach my meaning through my third eye.
I will not be replaced.
My love is foremost to my life, to my real protectors.
I will be loyal to the ones who revive.
Happiness is my first calling.
I am beautiful, without perfection.

You are beautiful.
By yourself, you are immaculate.
My attention, and everyone else's, you have.
You can have a clear mind.
You can have fresh air as a release.
Our souls.
All of our souls, they intermingle.
Please see this.
You can be alive.
You can be alive without all of their opposition.
You can be alive without drenched awareness.
Please see me.
Please seek me.

1 comment:

  1. Your words speak through. Like I was saying it all myself.

    So much about you draws me to you. Like it's a path I'm supposed to be curious about.

    I see this. I want to be the one who should.

    But I'm a mess. You're a source, and if you end up being just another muse, a teaching tool for me to grow in the direction I want to be heading in. I'm hesitant. Despite your oneness, awareness, and parallel ideals, you're dangerous, just like them all. In one way or another.

    I'd love to let you in my orbit, even if you're just a meteor.