This is sunday morning, steeped in sunlight,

the world blurry outside of a cracked window.

This is the aftermath,

late night conversations still glowing on the phone screen,

single spaced musings about the fragility of life,

and a hundred other childish things.

This is tracing patterns overhead on the popcorn ceiling,

and letting the sound of your own breath

lull you back to sleep,

wondering if you have ever felt quite this human before.

abandoned

like a balloon

(once it’s purpose is fulfilled),

and always early enough

that it’s helium

still let’s it float away.

what about the air filled ones?

what about those balloons?

the ones with carbon dioxide

the ones with breath

the ones with us inside them

they don’t get to float away

they don’t get to be abandoned

even if they want to be.

we have subtle lenses

attached to complex visions.

they call it creativity.

i call me falling off

the deep-end,

not drowning

or swimming in,

but falling.

guess its a perception thing.

i think at least if i were only drowning,

i'd only have five more minutes of

living like this.

but falling,

i am still breathing

and i can be falling forever.

at least thats how it seems.

my mind made up is

always different than

the norm or

the rest of the breathing world.

and i don't care if they do.

leave it to them.

i can't worry about

pleasing everybody.

i have too many damn ledges

to avoid catching,

to avoid becoming

just another anybody

like the rest of you sheep in society.

my eyes will stay

wide awake.

fuck you for loving me

and wanting me

and trying to

pull/push

tempt/sway

bribe/beg

me back to safety.

i don't want to be

tucked away

in someone elses

dreams.

that is my only nightmare.

the blank page

howled

at me;

begging me

to

write

anything.

black ink stained

the simple white sheet,

(un)written evidence

of my

incompetency

the sweet taste of spite

baked in your red velvet eyes;

the sprinkles of hope

coated in pretty white lies.

a slice of perfect fantasy,

but its burnt and undercooked.

the crumbs of your words

so loud but overlooked.

caked in frosted blood,

the scent as lovely as a dream;

the oven counting down

for the taste of perfected esteem.

these layers of untruths,

hidden under icings of fear;

your words wont affect me,

if i cannot hear.

“No one expects you to be perfect.”

The lies ring in my ears.

How much of this is reality?

How much of it is fears?

They all do expect the best from me.

I see it in their eyes.

All their voices call it out to me;

Compliments, needy cries.

They’re surprised when I make a mistake.

If I fail, they’re all “screwed!”

“Wait, you got this wrong?” Okay, I did!

You’re ruining my mood.

I do know it’s not intentional,

the pressure I can feel.

For it’s me who makes me feel the worst.

My flaws I must conceal.

Oh, it’s not their fault, but yet it is.

My fault is just worth more.

Yes, that sentence is true to my mind;

yet I’m doing better than before,

yet my confidence may win this war,

yet peace I may soon find.

I have a mouth,

but I do not eat.

I have a bed,

yet I never rest.

I have a bank

without money.

Go with the flow

if you want to pass this test.