You’re a fragile spirit, afraid to leave the grave of which you were laid to rest.
Metaphorically, of course…
Flowers used to grow in your veins and now they’ve long withered away and died.
The storms have long accumulated in your heart, pumping bolts of lightning to attempt to jolt the flowers awake…
But to no avail.
The water has filled your lungs, stealing away the oxygen needed for life.
Your body is drowning, drowning in the collected pools of your own tears from over the years.
And there’s no life preserver.
Hope is but a ghost to you now, you long ago murdered him…because everyone told you he was impossible, another dead end dream.
So you believed them.
And into the paper shredder Hope went.
And you threw the pieces into the wind, watching them sink into the muddy earth of despair.
Tiny shreds you’ve worked all your life for, gone.
And you wonder why it hurts so bad and why you’re always sad.
It’s because you let others dictate the way you live and look at the world.
Your brain is nothing but literal grey matter, no originality lives there anymore.
And still you wonder…
How could you not know? How can you not see?
The curtains stapled to your cornea must be drawn shut…
Now the lead weight of sorrow attached to your ankles drag you further and further under.
You can’t scream, your lips have been sewn shut because you’ve been told your opinions don’t matter…
And you STILL believed them.
They’re toxic, you know…
After all, don’t you see, that’s why your flowers died, the toxins infiltrated your bloodstream.
But no, you don’t see. You’re blinded, yet, still.
But like I said, you’re just a fragile spirit…
Afraid to leave the grave of which you were laid to rest.
And there your broken soul will continue to rot and decay with those who went before us,
Unless you make a change and recreate yourself.
Don’t you have your hands shackled with regret? Don’t you want to make changes?
And plant more seeds in your veins to blossom into beautiful gardens once more…?
And calm your storms into a peaceful summer’s day filled with the wings of Monarchs…?
And drain your lungs of those hydrogen molecules with an everlasting ray of sunshine…?
Dig up Hope and piece him back together again…?
He’ll forgive you, he understands more-so than you think.
And become an artist and release your feelings with colour once more on your brain and paint a mural of apology amongst the hemispheres…?
Erase the shades that were drawn to cover your sight; by God, open your eyes to the world again.
And finally rip those voodoo seams out and let your voice ring out to the heavens…
Because your opinion matters.
Your feelings matter.
And never let anyone destroy your spirit again.
Because even though damaged and broken spirits are beautiful and poetic…
It’s the mended spirits that are strongest, divine, and aesthetic.