My spirit is trembling in its shell.
Its lack of fulfillment feels like insects crawling up my legs.
They burrow their bodies under my skin. Like goosebumps they show up all over.
Creativity and artistry are the drugs I have chosen to
snort up my nose, to breathe into my lungs, and shoot up my arm.
When I'm high on them I feel like I can fly over the world.
My insecurities fade. My confidence sores.
My heart races and my eyes see things differently.
If I could have it my way I would never sober up.
Dreams should never fade and that high should never fall.
My elders tell me there's a time a place and a purpose for everything.
They tell me this isn't my time. They say my time will come eventually.
But what do you know?
How do you know that I wont jump in the grind at the ripe old age of 27
and be spat out with nothing but my sadness to occupy me?
The truth of the matter is you don't. Do you even understand how I feel?
Do you know what its like to put on a confederate uniform when you are at heart a union soldier?
Of course you don't.
You made your commitment to the confederacy before you even knew there was a world outside of your mothers home.
You weren't forced.
You willingly wrapped the collar around your neck and placed the leash in the hand of someone that knew nothing of you.
Like a prostitute you were pimped out.
Your body was used for a very specific purpose. You were made to feel special like you mattered.You were told by your clients that you could never be replaced.
The truth is, you can be.
But I don't blame you.
Somewhere along the line
someone told you you had to do it
if you wanted to see your dreams come true.
Now the lies you were told are the lies you whisper into the wind.
