I know the drugs really mess with your emotions, and being a sane person I tried to negotiate with myself, perhaps a slight contradiction. The dialogue in my head went something along the lines of trying to convince myself that I could, and I would, open this wrapper to get to the spoon, so I could eat my chocolate Frosty. Frosty are my comfort food, and I had just gone through a three hour surgery repairing all the things I tore in my knee, along with the emotional rollercoaster that the last year had been, and I wanted to enjoy my damn frosty. Like I really wanted my frosty. So as I tried to also negotiate with my fingers, finicky little things, I couldn’t manage to tear, break, or pop the stupid plastic covering my stupid plastic, probably destroying the world, spoon. As my frustration grew, my hands went awol and chose to work against the system. Okay, I low key, freaked out, which freaked out my poor dad. As I burst into tears over the whole ordeal, he, confused by the situation started to comfort me, thinking I was in literal (knee) pain. Just as all hope was lost, my rouge hand tore through the barrier. Yet, my victory was fleeting becasue the plastic, not hardy at all, spoon broke under all of my joyous pressure. I proceed to slam the two pieces of now useless plastic into my dad’s floor board. Sobs excaped my mouth and as my dad came to the realization of the 'frosty' situation he, probably with more love and conviction than anyone will ever say this sentence, said “we will get you another spoon”.

#broken_pencil

I find solace in writing. It is the therapy that I cannot afford, the sunrises I have yet to see, the love I have lost. For me, writing is the greatest escape because it allows me to rethink my experiences. It gives me the freedom to say what I feel and the control to hit delete. I guess it is just another form of neverland for those that are lost.

A mother that fought

for truth and her cigarettes

taught me to be brave

A father who drank

who loved deeper than any

passed down compassion

A teacher that taught

gave me the freedom to learn

and made me feel wise

A friend who was there

on the good and bad decades

gave me strength to stand

We are the combination of those we seek

We are their reflection, whether that be strong or weak

Do you ever stop to wonder, do you ever stop to ask,

how the daisy grew out of the cracks?

We look in admiration, to see beauty so clear.

Yet, the mirical of it all seems to disapear.

Forever we are going, going non-stop,

only glimpsing what should be caught.

If only we could dampen our quick pace,

we might understand that beauty cannot be seen in such haste.

The flower is praised for looking so fine,

yet, what I see, is something that defies time.

Her power lies in standing tall despite the stampede of boots.

She is brave for just exsisting, she is a rebel because she made her own roots.

Yet, as the sun sets and society marches,

she can’t help but to feel the darkness.

It becomes evident that growing through the cracks may be beautiful

to the ones that just pass by,

but it is lonely to be the only one that survived.