Brush

I sit in front of myself, Finding my way into my own eyes, Searching for myself in my mirror, Though I do not recognize this figure the light reflects, I gaze past my trasparent face, Looking for me, I wipe invisible tears that never fell away, Seeing the hidden scars appear, Each contain a memory, Revealing me, Yet I paint make-up onto my body to suit society, Showing what I desire to become, I envy sypathy, Since I know many have it worse, My eyes remain dead, I force them to enlighten, Yet my bogus ways can’t even fool me, I fear I am fake, But isn’t everyone fake, So would I be considered normal, I don’t know, Taking a deep breathe, Tasting the air, It is bitter, cold, dry, harsh, and judgemental, I continue to stare at my mirror, Hoping to find a piece of mind, Feasibly an answer, Expunging the stains on my bones, Amending my facial expression, Stealing an empathetic tone, Craving joy, Reenacting a ceased happiness, But my kindness is often mistaken as weakness, I can’t expect to be accepted in the world, When I can’t even accept myself, I fear love because I know it will never last, I’ve seen what love can do, I’m already dead in a living body so why would I want to die twice, Some would say I have a belligerent life, Or a dream life that has came into reality, Others would argue differ, Though it is not about what I have, But what it can become, Now I rise, Place my TOOTHBRUSH aside, Turn and walk in a slow motion, As I stitch a smile onto my face from cheeck to cheeck.