Red Lights

It's like being stuck. In the middle of an ocean with cumulus clouds overhead, treading water.
Arms flaring, body bouncing up and down. Screaming Help! Help! And seeing a light-is it a rescue boat? Or a lighthouse? It's a red light, but so far away. As the water becomes colder, the weight of my arms becomes heavier. I am weighing myself down. Above me I hear sounds of a helicopter. They see me flaring my arms, acknowledge that I am there, wet, burdened but they fly on looking for more. More. More.

Just Numbers.

It's like being stuck. When time freezes like the magical powers are bestowed upon those whose who are racing against it. When measuring time becomes impossible because the the overcast has blocked any sun from warming the frozen. The chosen. The naked and the scared.

Hopeless.

It's like being stuck in a dream; no wait in a nightmare. Not even the bravest poet would dare create a scene as distraught as the one now. When memories becomes the blocks that keep me afloat. Memories of those who I have loved and dreams of those who I want to love. Those that are left behind. If only I can let go of the blocks, and drown and no longer feel.

Because feeling is worse than apathy.

It's like being stuck. In your own head. When you're trying to run away from the ghosts and images of darkness which harness your soul. Stuck in my soul, grasping. filling. unable to realize how bad it really is. The red lights which seem so close are actually closer than I'll ever know, but to them I am just a number.

1,2,3,12,123,1122,1123,11231,1232,121123232212

Can numbers ever really have souls? Can killing one person ever save a thousand? What is the value of life? Of my life.

It's like being stuck as the hundred-thousandth digit in a history textbook reporting the numbers of deaths by drowning. Souless- all the while, the red lights blink on.

http://www.yourdil.org/projects/relief

Falsities

"The world in pretend is a cage, not a cacoon."

How Do You See Me?

How do you see me through that lens of yours? Where the world is colored in floral tones and horizons are met with uncertainty. Where beauty is an undiscovered island in the background of a story you created.

How do you see me, through a lens with broader vision than meets the eye. As a spirit as free as the winds on a sunny August morning, or as confined within my head, my heart as a prisoner shackled to bricks.

How do you see me, through that lens of yours without a flash in the darkness of night which can be considered my soul, where secrets and lies and dreams and nightmares eat at each other, feed each other and destroy a fictional self-created image, its emptiness resonating, surrounding.

I am but a piece of your imagination, which when translated is babble and vitriolic. In your mind and through your eyes this is but an image, nurtured and created by you, when in reality it is nothing more than a person who never was.

The best version of me, is a person who does not exist and although you believe I may be her, I know that I am not.