I would like you to see in a brief thought of young mind, going through the harsh ships of life. That has lived longer then when this was writen. With parents and teachers who overuse their leadership and where it feels like abuse. Peer groups are major for every person to fallow, be poor or not, you had to fit in. Yet, to what risk would someone take to do just that?

This is a question I have
Heard for many years
And Finally!

Finally I have the guts
To give the answer.

I’m only dead outside,
As the wild forest grows
In an sheltered dome.

The words that exit these windpipes
Are sugar coated to make you smile.

Or to weep tears of sweet salt.

But then, after all that…
Was it all worth it in the end?

To now only remain in silence
And to be only a watcher.

You could see anyone as a
Thorny rose bush,
With no roses.

But look deep,
A colorless rose,
Is within the threshold.

But that couldn’t be close
To what others may say,
Even if in kind words or not.

Many would say in those
Painfully happy words
That in truth I Am,
A mature brat,
Or a demonic cherub.

The life that has been lived
Is like a flowing river
That becomes a powerful waterfall
That has a bottomless ending.

Empty spaces between the ears
Is welcome to everything.

The temple is more of
A universal theme park.

Being open is hard while
Being on,
Lock-down.

No way of signaling
To others
That I am here or there.

I understand how the plague feels,
With having no choice
Of becoming anything else but,
Cold and heartless,

In a world filled with
Shifting warmth.

Being nothing but a broken dull pencil
Trying to make a good long point.

Is this the feeling of un-normal?

As to those who are normal,
As it is to spots and stripes.

Would have all this be
Different,
If I wasn’t me?

If there is anyway to see this
It would have to be something,
I loathe with all my heart.

Involves in day to day life,
School comes to mind
With this and I know its not…

Not a quiz or test,
But having known its already
Viewed over.

But there is no place,
To put the answer.

More harder then getting friends
As a children try to catch
Bubbles that won’t pop.

Is this really me?
A “me” that I can be
Proud of?

Or will others just like me,
As doughnuts to Homer.

Wishful thinking?

Maybe over time thing will change,
As the same to reruns of an
Old TV show.

But all that is known
In front of this essence I call
My own to use freely.

This is…
Me.