don't be normal

Illuminate the pages of my book with your mellow

light, understand me, respect me, care about me. 

Open the door to your heart, let me in, let me be happy

vicariously. As we grow older, more mature, busier 

even then, I will be by your side. 

You can wonder if this is the truth. It is, 

otherwise I would not write it. I would not lie. 

Understand this, if all else confused you: I am yours. 

What has happened, 

where did all the joy go? You tell yourself: 

you are not a victim. 

This is life for everyone. 

Suck it up. 

But it doesn't change the way you feel. 

They say that it will pass, and I think we will too, 

because of the severity of our rigid views. 

But maybe in the meantime, 

I can hope to be the same again, 

I can hope to feel the joy of the sun on my skin, 

or feel nostalgia when the clouds cry rain; 

I can wish to be surrounded by kindness 

and not dismissal, 

and I can pray that all of it passes, all but us. 

I am nothing

There is always a screen. A translucent film separating us; a bubble with a rainbow on its surface. Beautiful. Tragic. Laughs that echo within, cheeks rosy from the laughter, or is it just a reflection from the screen? Pause. Reflect. Which one of these are your true friends? The film keeps caving in on me. Until it becomes me. I am the screen. I am the film. I am the bubble. I am the shield. Until it consumes me. Now, what am I? I am nothing.

would you look down upon me too?

Suddenly, everything is surreal. 

Issues of the mind are real. 

As real as you are. 

But you think they only exist in one's mind. 

What if I told you that they existed in me?

That forced disinterest is real?

That falling into an empty pit, within me, is real?

That what I write about it true?

That I wish I could cry instead of losing my ability to feel?

Would you look down upon me too?