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Poem

Popular opinion over rules
some may say. 
If one could comb through hearts beyond name and number.
The real would reveal
truth yearns to bleed. 
Secrets whom cards would never concede.

Hands stay in line with dull color: barren, bland, and broken. 

How can one find true color when you attempt to paint in the likeness of them all?

Can't.

You'd know not your city, country or continenet. 
Burnt bridges.
Your true self makes a slip to a highly alert audience. 

In malice
they long await a slip.
Back pedal your true color. 
Time and time again. 

Smear, swather and smother. 
Smear swather and smother. 
Smear swather and smother. 

What does it take to confront the inner demons that rob you of self worth?
Courage.

Who holds claim to your existence?
None.

Worst still...

Why do you believe them?
Fear.

Where's the clear water to wash away the mixture you long to depart from?
Inside.

At what point and time does one get fed up?

Today.

Will it take the loss of all of you before you come to grips that you'll need impenetrable grit?

Maybe.

The only true crime you're guilty of is to have an opinion. 

How valuable is it to you and what are you willing to lose to uphold it?

Everything.

If it is your make, mind and model. 
Best believe it's beyond anything money can buy. 

It's worth speaking boldly. 
It's worth living in the outskirts. 
It's worth being rejected.

Out there in the open...

The stars shine brighter
The creatures sing louder
and the grass is surely greener.

That, my dear friends, is always keener.

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