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Life is just an endless series of endings and beginnings.
An endless cycle,
like the laundry in the washing machine
An endless cycle.
The dutiful sun rises and sets.
A glowing light stretched over the horizon
like a tightrope.
I wonder what would happen if somebody got a pair of scissors and went
Would the only constant be the unworthy moon cratered in imperfections?
The wailing of a child as the umbilical cord is cut.
The connection to the mother.
The lifeline of nourishment and care,
Sometimes I feel as if I was born water.
I am slipping through my own fingers,
unable to grasp who I am,
molding to your expectations.
Every day I become a watered-down version of myself.
Cutting away the me,
My mind cuts me down to make me smaller
like the way I wished my body looked in the mirror
Do you ever pinch skin between your fingers and wish you could just
it all away?
Like all the other things you hate,
to count my insecurities would take the same amount
of nights for you to cut from the sky
all the stars and city lights.
Curve and edges.
Distorted and blurred.
When I look in the mirror
I think the only beautiful thing about me is my words.
I realize that words are like scissors.
Cut away the beauty or
Cut away the ugly.
It just depends on the wielder
Words are like scissors.
“You can’t be perfect,” they say.
“You can’t be perfect”
They say that perfection is unattainable but
we are designed to want what we cannot have
like the moon spending each day chasing the sun across the sky
They told me to shoot for the moon and then be content landing in the stars.
but stars are big balls of gas.
You will die if you land on them.
Maybe that is the point of this whole life mission
to burn out.
But to be honest, I just want to land on the moon
to be honest
I just want to float on something else cratered with imperfections
Words are like scissors
Cutting through my thoughts as I am staring at the cycle of the ceiling fan as it swirls,
thoughts swirling in my own head
of all the things I wish I said
Sometimes I hear people talking like a distant dream.
One will come up and say, “how is your day”
and I will feel my body contracting,
“good” I say.
What I want to say is that I am not alright, that I
feel as if I am drowning.
The cycle churning bubbles
exploding from my mouth as I try to scream,
I feel hollow
like an empty prescription bottle
and my words feel like pills that I can not swallow.
I can feel them getting lodged in my throat
like the piece of apple from the garden of Adam and Eve.
Sinful yet I am tempted but cutting through the
“Good” I repeat instead “really good.”
Stuck in an endless cycle.
Chasing the idea of a perfect sun
with people who would have rather had a perfect son
but I am like the moon.
A glowing symbol of imperfection,
rarely ever living up to my full potential
So I am stuck in a cycle.
Words are me grasping onto reasons to live.
Choking them out to fill the air at the dinner table
with tension so thick you can
I am like a magician conjuring up reasons,
creating towers made of ice on a bed of matches,
burning holes of excuses
Rubbing against the metal blade of scissors
Words are like scissors
and I have read that when you have no reason to stay it is a good reason to go.
EndIings, cutting your life line away,
Ending the endless cycle
They told me to reach for the moon and then be content landing in the stars
the moon has no gravity,
the building lights kind of look like stars
and if I squint hard enough the sidewalk is cratered with imperfections.