"A Mirage of Opinions"

"A Mirage of Opinions"

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You cannot pick me up,

spill me out,

and spread me across a canvas used by everyone... anyone.

I am much more of than gold. I demand more.

I am frivilous, and daring.

Look at my shoes, see how they glisten with respect; do I pave down roads made by my own two hands, or follow suit, after a need of blind trust and faith?

I am at a stand still, as often I am among this route, agan and again; the weather is welcoming, warm.

I need a change, a fast paced heart rate, something that defies logic, my mind defies logic, yet I do not use it, I sit at home, opportunities come and go and still I sit and wait, it is like this:

/

She is still, silent; nothing of her own to call forth.

She is scared, but, naught.

It is difficult to explain, you must see through her eyes:

*

I am afraid, they already know, yet act as if they don't.

Constant bodily tremors; I cannot sleep.

Cannot speak, these thoughts are drowning me.

I am one thought too many, all my seams, loose as they are, are pulled taught against my ribcage.

There are no lace dresses for me, no gloves of white, or dinner by candlelight; I am forced upon a future of many scribed souls.

Their fates: written; mine, unknown, yet known by so many.

I am not as I was, not a question mark, or a  puzzle, nor a pathway of sorts: suddenly, it is as if I have become my own worst version.

A dull, dun color scape of grays and whites, something only prisoners are accustomed to.

Am I, then, a prisoner?

By association of my actions and deeds, have I then, in reverse intent, outed myself?

I am a dry, unused, untainted, unsmeared, pure, holy, unfinished slab of gold tricklets.

Or, of the same aptitude as one with a fresh pen, set to intended writings upon walls in which they so chose to stay in.

There is no color in my eyes, I have sung too many of these songs; left them whispered in stone.

Color in my ashes with an array of themes from children's dreams, please; I beg of you to take into account of my horrors, my night time terrors, the city domes in which I travel to, only in my minds' eye.

I don't need you to pity me, but take heed in what I say, I am not of the masses'; and again, again, again...

*

You only see the fraction of thought that she sits in.

Her whirrings, impossible to hear unless you ask her what it is that bothers her.

She sits still, her past settling into her skin, her bones, the marrow underneath.

One move, one pretentious notion of discomfort; the kettle boiles over and spills onto seething skin, already marred from restless waking eyes, open from distress.

So you see, in fact, she is not only a sillhouette.

Not only is she, just that, she.

I am a self proclaimed thinker and I demand all my thoughts be heard.

I demand it!!

It is of my nightly routine; hear me.

Hush now.. it is alright, I will pause; but for a moment!

Will you still be here, even if it is I who messes up? 

Even if it is I that is made to look like the fool?

Will you still be waiting?