Surveying my surroundings, taking a deep breath, and finding the sudden reality I've been forcibly exposed to, I try to find comfort in all the typical structures around me.
Trees, grass, leaves.
Keep nature in order, it's the only thing that seems to stay the same, the seasons change, but they always come back again.
Just like our pasts sometimes repeat, you know indefinitely that the Earth keeps close to it's transcendental routine.
The throbbing that is my memory tries to stifle out it's pain, it's a continuous thing really.
The blood of the innocent is rarely ever shed, today we are quietly kept up in our middle-class environments.
Never to segregate.
Equality has come and it's going to further procreate.
I want to run from it all, society is like a very sturdy, far from lacking stern, brick wall.
I can't bust through it, but envision someday I'll be able to jump over it.
Before my age turns against me, and my body starts to physically appear decayed.
I must out last all that tries to seep through my sanity, my vanity, and everything that keeps me able to go through the living breathing motions of humanity.
My men go through me, I'm transparent and lonely, nothing can latch on for more than a moment.
I savor every drop of them, more so like an alcoholic's last beverage.
I fear the day I officially run dry.
Escaping the evil eyes of my perceptively ill enemies, I try not to fathom the integrity they lack on each mission they set out to relinquish me.
Forever in doubt of one's beauty, I try to paint an attractive picture of myself.
Surpassing all that has brought happiness, sadness, revelation, and cynicism, I want to free myself of the emotions that hold dictatorship of my mental set up.
The words are like goblins hiding under bridges I so desperately need to cross, once I come inches close, they climb out, scare me, and then beckon for me to join them in the degrading life of dampness and the scathing.
I turn back to what is normal to me, yet, I will never stop yearning to pass that entry, find my way on different landscapes, a point of clearity.
Until then, I'll wait here, dreaming of prosperity, try not to lose my head, and my poorly constructed form of new found virginity.
© Copyright 2016 Kathleen Megquier. All rights reserved.