rising

I want the grass to always stay green so I close my eyes. I shut the door on daylight and drink another beer. I want to be wrong all alone so I can criticize myself.

I want people to miss me, and create a me that I can admire, I want people to only know the bare bones of who I am so that they can project a persona onto me that I can feel inspired to live up to, or conspire to break it down.

I feel nice in this corner. I live between two pages, the binding is my home,and this story is better than my own. I forget that my body exists, survival is easy in the buzz of my mind. Dancing in the shadows of leaves and reaching toward the sky, ignoring the gray keeps reality at bay, blindness keeps my spirits high and my insanity sharp. My happiness depends on a constant running from reality, a constant escape from what has turned everyone else so hard and cold.

As long as I stare at the sun so long that I'm blind to the dark, as long as I stay laughing so long that I am drunk from lack of oxygen and incapable of breathing a bad word against anybody, as long as I stay vague and unreal, as long as I stay down here, happy to bask in the mud, as long as I stay hurt, I won't know the constant struggle to heal.