Work in Progress

I can stare at the mirror and never see my own face
because I never see past
the scars and the wrinkles and flaws.
Over and over, I’ve torn myself down
and sat brokenhearted on the ground,
looking for someone else to come pick up the pieces of me
and put them together in a way
that might make me feel
p r e t t y.

I’ve neglected my body and burdened my soul
with the weight of my own indiscretions.
I was given a blank canvas and with my own two hands,
in every pure, white space I scribbled a mess.
And once the ink dried, I added a layer,
and on that foundation I’d build
for the next twenty years.

Until one day, I realized the portrait I painted
was nothing but pigment caked onto a page,
haphazardly slopped into indistinct shapes
and the colors had melted into dark, murky gray.
So I stepped back to evaluate the masterpiece I’d wasted,
and the time that it’d taken to
reach a point when I could admit that I was just as lost
as the missed opportunities behind me.

And as someone who hates to admit fault,
it’s hard to admit all the wrongs I’ve done
victim and actor were both myself, but the self-harm
I inflicted wasn’t the kind done with a blade.
It was with
my
    own
          two
              hands.

I’ve spent over half my life as my own worst enemy
and the decision to try and repair what I’ve done to me
will take just as long as the journey to get here,
I know that better than anyone but, now, for the first time,
I’m ready to try.

Because somewhere from the depths of all of the gray,
a beautiful pigment of blue was created,
it brought more than just color to the miserable page,
it gave it a reason.
She
     gave
           me
                a
                   reason.

So now, I work slowly, but out of determination,
I chisel and scrape with my own two hands
at the canvas before me, layers of bad decisions
flake off all around the place where I stand.
Progress is slow, and at times, frustratingly so,
and I mind my steps down the line as I toe
between pride for my efforts and cringing at flaws
that I notice much more now that I’m trying to make...
a r t ?

I’m as much a work in progress now as ever before
but now there is an active attempt to be more
than just a photograph of a woman standing at the back of the group,
hiding herself from seeing her own truth
and living each day, hiding insecurities with laughter.
I’ve made myself the punch line for so long, it wasn’t until after
I faced the fact that everyone can already see the flaws on the surface,
that I accepted that those cannot be changed until I fix what’s below it.

This time, there is a story to be told
of a woman who learned how to finally be bold.
I’ve focused my mind, set my sights on tomorrow,
I’m scraping and painting away through my sorrows
And while I cannot erase all the damage I’ve inflicted,
I can paint a whole new picture.

So I’ll spend some time picking up pieces of myself, long abandoned
and put them together in a way
that makes me feel
w o r t h y .

Atonement

It starts with
one thing, a feeling, just believing,
breathing, focus locked on succeeding
on reaching the buried source of the feeling.
I take a step back, let my heart take the lead
and then it just flows,
rows and rows of black ink on a white page,
memories engaged, inhibitions uncaged,
nothing to dissuade, no secret left safe.

All I've ever wanted was the chance to be
the second chance for someone needing someone else to see
that pain is more than sticks and stones and broken bones;
it's 3:00am, at home, alone, when panic reaches danger zone,
and all you hear are overtones of every doubt you've ever known.

See,
I've got nothing to hide,
I've put twenty thousand words here in front of your eyes,
every bump or bruise encountered, documented in time,
from Misery and through reflections, every verse, every rhyme,
even my crimes. And I'll continue to write.
I will share my every story just in case that I might
give someone light or a reason to fight, maybe I
might never reach that destination, but dammit, I tried.

When I was sixteen, I thought I had a plan,
I raised my voice, never feared to take a stand.
It's funny really, how much has changed since then,
and just how much I truly didn't understand,
I criticized feeble men, lost more than one of my best friends,
some victim to my harsh demands and some I deemed mannequins.

Man, I can't deny, I'm a hypocrite.
So fake some days, I feel like a counterfeit.
I've spent the last ten years trying to blend into the crowd
Can't be too loud, take credit but don't seem to proud,
look at me, now.

That's why I write what I am feeling,
my self therapy, but left in a form so revealing,
no self preservation but the world can be so fleeting
that I don't really mind the thought of strangers reading.

Just think about it. When we're gone, what have we left?
At the ending of a chapter, we all so easily forget
the tiny details that captivated, only for the moment.
We turn the page and the memories, they fade,
so this is my atonement.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Things aren't the way they were before, you wouldn't even recognize me anymore. Not that you knew me back then but it all comes back to me in the end." -- Linkin Park