Self Portrait

A painting is a scene, a still, like without motion, but you can create its effect:

Frozen.

The world has each different time zones, split, so we may each see the sun at the proper hour.

Yet we call. We come and go. All unawares of those asleep in their night.

"We're all the same!", "We're all different!",

"Devour he who is not me!", or even the horrid screaming, "You forgot to say 'she'!"

This is a small clip of my feelings, written on a scrap piece of paper, in red ink;

Like the blood trailed down our arms, the stains on our fingers, math, bright smudges, because we've placed our curiosity in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I may have no vivid imagery, I may nave not the lungs to scream, to cry, nor the strength to never accept defeat. I may not have the skin of a pampered barbie doll,

I've been rejected, too many times.

I cannot fulfil what is expected of me.

I am supposed to scream, to yell, to lash my blood-covered fists at my enemies

and my friends.

I am urged to curse, and whisper lies,

like the canary in the cage with crows.

She does not know my thoughts, temptations I've felt.

She tells me what to think; oh the thoughts I've thought of her, wicked, truly. I regret every utterance. I do.

I won't tear into the broken pieces! I can never sweep up your shattered glass, you've thrown in at me with such disgust,

I never listened to you, really. I wanted to fit, I wanted to find favor in your eyes.

I wanted, so dearly, to fit. I did.

Like sea-glass, you're tinted green, and blue, scattered on the floor. I wanted to sweep up the shards; scattered on my own kitchen floor. But I am not full of your clout, enough to handle the slits in my bare feet.

You've touched me in all the wrong places.

Who am I even talking to?

My vigor has dwindled on, with hope I might see you under the light of the lamp. In this night. That I wouldn't have to both crawl on my hands and knees to find you down the alleyways damp from too many things, printed in trails, from paws of rats. Rodents that look too much like me (in the mirror). I never had enough courage to look for you there.

The sunrise never caught my eye, the colors of pink and orange, and the vibrance of hope, it was never really my thing.

I never clung to that kind of prestige, my rope was too thin; with not enough knots, my grip never lasted with enough influence.

You don't even know my name. You never wanted to hear me say it. You never tried to remember. But golly,

you seek my praise.

You seek it from all of us, our trust.

I am standing still!

Once, like a stalk of wheat, blowing, tossing—allowing myself to be tossed—In the wind. Stalling until the day I'd be cut down.

But did you know—you, know who I am talking to—that an Oak tree does not fall from the kicks of your shoe?

Your boots are made of stubble, no gold or silver soles, did you ever keep.

You promised me healing, but did you ever give me even a fresh fig for my wounds?

You never respected my God. No matter how I respected yours. You laughed at me. I will not laugh at you. Don't make me; I won't.

You're full of the people who cross the boundaries, break their walls, color outside the lines.

Everyone is coloring outside the lines.

I always considered myself an artist.

I now realize that I've always drawn my own lines. I create them with the lights and shadows, they are the places in between.

Sometimes I have drawn them with black ink, made from my evil deeds. I've done so many, you know. It hurts.

But when you take your mistakes—as I do. All your actions, black ones and white, bad and good, and fill them with the colors of your personality,

You define yourself.

I have been defined, using my good and bad, the light in which I have color.

Now, on the inside and out, I have been created an own idea of myself.

I no longer love the way you look, you know.

I could have never said to your face that I hated you, I'm not all that brazen. But it's true.

You caused me pain, but that's okay. You've made my portrait more complete. Experience tends to do that, it does.

I have found something with so much more worth. It shines light on qualities I desire, he tells me how to get there.

Makes me strong enough to take the journey.

I always thought, that I'd have to

color outside the lines,

break down the boundaries, and

run, if wanted to fit in; have worth.

But all you do, I've seen, is loose yourself. You're undefined, you deny your own worth.

And you muddle your own colors they turn to brown, like everyone else.

But I have turned my back; run away from you and your twisting desire and required.

I've always been shy.

But

at least I know what I look like.