I am neither clever, nor sophisticated.

Some might argue that my views are antiquated.

Still, the older I grow the more I am aware

of the harsh reality that life isn't fair.

One can whine about it, or kick and scream and cry.

Me? I saw that all I had to do was just try.

I could read every self-help book on the shelf,

but no superhero would save me from myself.

While Fate composed my chapters mysteriously,

I resolved not to take life so seriously.

I have learned to surrender to the pain of truth,

and shun the humorless attitude of my youth.

In my thoughts and words, I find that I'm transcending

the tawdry cruelness of being condescending.

Because, my pal, I've seen how the past works out fine.

It's there that I've found evidence of the divine.

we were still children

and we believed in friendship

the way you believe in falling stars,

in god because your parents said so,

in dreams so you'd tell them to everyone

but did you know

that dreams won’t come true

if you tell someone

so you stopped telling people

what went on inside your head.

we were eight.

soon

you realised

that it didn’t matter

whether you told people or not

because dreams were dreams,

and dreams just aren’t real.

you also realised

through weeks of sleepless nights

that you don’t always want

what’s in your head

to come true,

because it’s not always a nice thing.

we were still children

and you left the town.

we made a pinky promise

and hugged on the last day,

swearing that we’d meet

when you came to visit,

that we’d play pretend princesses and dragons under my jacaranda tree

and we’d go down to the creek to sing with the birds

and we’d play on my swing

and i’d push you because it was my turn to do so.

do you remember

the day you came back,

two years later?

did you forget

all the promises we made,

all the secrets we shared,

all the things we once said?

tell me.

was it foolish for me to think

that you’d have stayed the same?

was it foolish for me to trust

in our friendship?

was it foolish for me to think

you’d care to even look at me

when you came back

to this place?

i cried that night.

i was so young

and foolish

and i believed too much

in things that just weren’t there.

friendship,

like a childish dream—

but you learnt too soon

not to believe in dreams.

[thank you for the memories]

You'll find her in the back,

A misfit queen

Of broken dreams

Dressed in black.

Cigarettes drained,

And nicotine stains..

A smoke cloud encompassed insomniac.

Choking on carcinogens,

Worthless humans,

And debilitating payback.

And praying for a savior beyond

Prozac, 

Plaque, 

Or a heart attack.

People are hypocrites.

Please remember that as you nod along to the above statement, you are also a person, and therefore are a hypocrite. I have now successfully angered a good 94% of my readers.

Perhaps I should explain. Most people are good at rationalization. Everyone has so much information to process, it's overwhelming. So your brain takes shortcuts, and puts things into boxes. The very first box most people have is me vs. everyone else.

Painful as it can be to admit, human tendency is to notice the good in the "me" box and the bad in the "everyone else" box. After all, we know every detail in our thoughts, background, personality that lead to our mistakes. We also don't feel the pain that our carelessness and petty spite inflict. But when someone else screws up or hurts us, we tend to assume that they must not be as good as us since we don't know their thoughts, background, and personality. Or maybe we just don't feel compelled to make excuses for them like we do for ourselves.

Plus, we are our own benchmarks. If we don't know anyone who cooks, say, pie as well as we do, we assume we are an above-average cook. It doesn't matter if there are plenty of people we don't know who are better cooks. As long as we're the biggest fish in the pond, we're better. And people who are better? Well, they're either try-hards or they're the best of the best, but that doesn't keep us from being better than most people. You know, in the things that matter.

Patently absurd as this kind of thinking is, it's something we all do without thinking about it. Can we recognize it? Remedy it? Change? Yes, and some people are better than others at it. I'd say I'm above average-- oops.

I'm sorry that you're in so much pain that you want to leave everything and everyone behind. I am not going to pretend to know exactly what you're going through, but I understand feeling like there is no other option available. I've been there.

I swallowed half a bottle of pills, chased it with a bottle of grey goose. But somehow, I'm still here. The only explanation is that it wasn't my time to go. Maybe you don't believe in fate or second chances, but let me tell you, I am so happy that my life didn't end that night. I would have missed out on so much beauty in this world. I never would have travelled overseas and spent a summer in Europe. I never would have met my husband. We wouldn't have had our beautiful daughter.

Beauty can be found anywhere, even in the smallest things or the oddest of places. You just have to know where to look.

Tell me, what about your life is beautiful?

I hear that Aristotle once said or wrote, "It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it."

In today's terms, and maybe even then he meant, "intelligent" rather than "educated."

For I know many educated folk (I was once one of them), that claim they are intelligent due to:

--the number of degrees on their wall,

--the memorization of "facts" in texts,

--the adoption of perspective which is unwilling to be amended,

--and confidence that prevents them from developing anyone around them.

An educated man without humility is a man without the ability to find intelligence; meant to be a man temporary in the history of time.

An intelligent man, formally educated or not, with an open-mind, allows for growth of himself and the masses among him, and thus can stand the test, and texts, of time.

I'm neither educated nor intelligent, for I remember little from my 6 years of college,

I still owe its debt, with unbelievable interest, and I know nothing about where I came from, why I'm here, or where I'm going. However, I am open-minded enough, and remember enough, to know that:

more will be revealed.

The stranger knocked upon the door,

A creaking, wooden throb,

And someone on the other side

Unlatched and turned the knob.

Uncertainty, a soft, "Hello,"

And, "May I use your phone?"

The person on the other side

Appeared to be alone.

An observation taken in,

No pictures on the wall.

He pointed somewhere down the way-

"Go on and make a call."

The thunder boomed; the stranger stalled

As wires were cut instead.

The gentleman began to sense

A subtle hint of dread.

A conversation thus ensued-

"So what has brought you out?

The rain has flooded everything,

And wiped away the drought.

Say, did you walk, or did you drive?

Why don't I take your coat?"

The stranger slowly moved his arms,

A sentimental gloat.

The water from the pouring skies

Enveloped cloth and shoe.

"Say, would you like a place to sleep?

I'll leave it up to you."

The person on the other side

Discarded his mistrust.

The stranger said his tire was flat,

And shed the muddy crust.

"The phone won't work," he also said.

"It could just be the storm.

Perhaps I will stay here tonight,

To keep me safe and warm."

The patron of the house agreed.

He hadn't seen the wire.

The chilly dampness prompted him

To quickly build a fire.

"You have a name? They call me Ed.

My wife was Verna Dean.

She passed away five years ago

And left me here as seen.

I guess it's really not so bad.

We never had a child.

I loved that Verna awful much,"

He said and sadly smiled.

"No property to divvy up.

The bank will get it all.

Say, do you want to try again

To go and make that call?"

The stranger grinned and left the flame

As to the phone he strode.

Within his pocket, knives and twine

In hiding seemed to goad.

A plan was formed- he'd kill the man;

Eviscerate him whole.

The twine would keep him firmly held;

The knife would steal his soul.

A lusty surge erupted hence;

A wicked bit of sin.

The stranger hadn't noticed yet

That someone else came in.

About the time a shadow fell,

He spun to meet a pan.

The room around him faded out

As eyes looked on a man.

A day or two it seemed had passed,

And when he woke all tied,

The stranger gazed upon old Ed

Who simply said, "You lied."

Reversing thoughts, the moment fled

And Ed said in a lean,

"No worries, stranger. None at all.

Hey, look, here's Verna Dean!"

He looked upon a wraith in rage;

It seemed his little lie

Combusted in a burning fit-

He didn't want to die.

So many victims in his life,

Some fifty bodies strewn.

And now he was the victim; now

The pain to him was known.

The stranger fought against the twine,

And noticed by his bed

The knife once in his pocket left

A trail of something red.

A bowl filled full of organs sat

As Verna poured some salt.

She exited with all of them.

"You know, this is your fault.

We demons wait for just the day

The guilty take the bait

And play with matches one last time-

I simply cannot wait

To taste the death within your flesh;

The venom in your gut.

So now you know the way they felt-

Hey, you've got quite a cut!"

The person on the other side

Removed his human skin-

Before his wife came back for more,

He offered with a grin:

"Say, stranger, is there anything

You'd like to say at all?"

I looked at all the blood and said,

"I'd like to make that call ... "

Do you remember when you were four years old,

When you didn't care about how your body looked.

When you didn't know how it should look.

You didn't care about what you ate or what you weighed.

You didn't even know what perfection was.

You were just purely you.

Who even told you what flaws were?

Who told you what was beautiful,

And what was not?

Who had the audacity to ruin your perfect self image.

And start a world of impossible standards.

Who created the demon inside of you?

The demon that has now taken over your life.

The one that made you care more about the number on the scale,

Or the blemish on your face,

Then your self worth.

The demon screaming inside of you,

Hammering in the message that you will never be loved,

Not unless you meet an impossible list of "perfection".

A list filled with thigh gaps, tiny waists, big eyes and perfect skin.

A list that will tear you apart.

The demon hollows out your insides,

Taking away any joy you had left in your body,

Until there is nothing.

Creating an abyss that will never be filled.

It makes it so all you can think about is everything you are not.

You'd rather starve than eat.

You would rather cut your arms,

Than look at yourself in a mirror.

The demon will not stop until you hate yourself.

Until you loathe your very existence,

And cry yourself to sleep.

It will keep on growing and growing,

until you fade away to nothingness.

You have to take away its power.

Look away from that magazine,

And step away from that scale.

Stop thinking about what your not,

And embrace who you are.

Stop caring about a space between your thighs,

Or a timepiece like figure.

And start caring about you.

Your body is your only home.

Stop treating it like its broken,

Or messy.

Stop trying to clean and fix your already perfect house.

The only one who can kill the demon

Is you.