i measure the year not on dates but on occasions. this year is over. i measure success by happiness. this year was a failure. i measure joy by happiness, by finite things that melt faster than my fudgsicle on august the third. as i look at still shots of people i know, i judge there happiness on outside things, not on the image of there soul written in their eyes. they are happier than i. i know the truth yet it disapates in the depth of my own thoughts. the pleas to myself to shake the cobwebs formed around my prayers go unheard while distractions become a way of life. a whisper of truth finds its way to the ambigious nature of my thoughts and threatens to break away the rusting deception. a welcomed threat.
Not wanting to be a burden. I carry my own load. Not wanting to go outside of who you think I am. I carry my own load. A cyclic cycle of deception. I hurt you. I hurt me. Not wanting to bring on worry. I carry my own load. Not wanting to bring false witness I carry my own load. A pang of regret fills my heart. Where was I during those happy moments. Lost within myself wanting to remain strong. I carry my own load. Often it leaked out . This deception gone to far. You saw the real me. A glimpse of broken pottery strewn across the floor. Not yet retrieved yet hastily put together so the show can go on. Don’t look. work in progress. Why do I think I must be cement instead of porcelin. Here I am. Blown glass. Fragile. Broken. Here I am.