For her.

As my head rests back on the sandstone covered stairs, I look to the vast blue skies the muse to so many romantic poets and come to the conclusion that while I am romantic, I am no poet. Collections of dust and dizziness float above me, seen through my own skewed perceptive lens(literally in my case). I try to shake the insurmountable weight on my figurative shoulders as well as the very real aching knots within. She makes me despise who I am, what I say, do, eat and every breath I take seems like an inconvenience to her gilded path. “Don’t take her seriously, you’re so rare and special, embrace your differences,” the comment that seems like a slap in my face and feelings. I’m allowed to feel even too much the way I do, swallow back the tears and cuddle the tiger looking cat. I am entitled to drift like the white clouds in and out of my sad state or consider never going back in, but only I believe this- and far too deep down inside. So I sigh a real sigh and and lift the heavy expanse of my body and soul further into my thoughts.

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