I'm far too simple.

I just want to have friends that care about me. I want friends to say things to my face. To ask questions about me once in a while. I feel like a really good wall. Perfect for leaning on. Anytime. All the time. I want you to tell me the truth. I want you to at least let me help you. I wish you didn't keep secrets. I wish you didn't say bad things about me behind my back. I wish you didn't give up on me. I wish I could help you feel better. I want to be good enough. I want to be useful, at the very least. I don't want to be left here. Its very hard here. I can't move.

Illality

Reality is sick. Coughing, hacking its way around. Vision becomes blurry and with each blink the clock ticks away one more time. Five, ten, elven. And then three. The lamp begins to melt and the music starts to whisper in you ear. "Liar...liar...failure... eat a hot dog...." There is little sense left.
I begin to walk along a street. In each window there is something reminiscent of something I've already seen. First there is a stage. He is covered in gaudy lipstick, and has a crowd of people on and surrounding him. Each person is smiling very enthusiastically; some with staples to keep their miles stretched so wide, other have nails, some even are hammering the nails deeper in right as I walk by. The canned laughter is loud; the laugh track playing over and over and over again. I blink and the lipstick, violent stuff, melts off and the stage screams. We bleed together. It hurts. I walk toward the door. An apparition appears, only a little taller than me, darker skin, a monochromatic thin brown build . "You would be happier somewhere else." He says. "I don't think you really belong here." He looks. As I turn and continue down the sidewalk he thinks "I don't want you here." The music once again whispers, this time with an echo that spins into a cacophony "Don't want you here....don't want you here...don't want you here..." The emphasis changes every time. The stage and I continue to bleed together. I walk to the next window.
There is nothing but colors. Brushed by a Persian cat dipped in paint that rubbed up against the wall in delight, contentment and pride fill the wall with the reds and the perfect compliments further stroke the dignity with a soft green. Then a sublime yellow appears, and grins. A lovely grin. Brown ineptitude spins on madly with the lipstick, and a splash of yellow grin goes into the mix. I have a brown yellow red tail following me down the sidewalk. "Falter...you...don't want you here....grinning." And the world spins madly on.
Lastly I come to a turtle shell. I go in, it has nothing but mirrors. All warping in some way or another. Brown, red, and yellow. It begins to meld, and pushes me out of the millions of perspectives. I am staring at a turtle. A big, brown, red and yellow turtle. I am staring at a mirror.
I have too many ways to look at things, inside this shell. If I pull away from the world everything I've ever seen reflects back at me, all with me somewhere in it. None of it looks like it should. I can't decide which one is real. I can't decide what I should do.
Reality sneezes right onto a turtle with a sidewalk-long tail. I'm tired of getting that guys germs. I pull back inside myself, and all the mirrors have reality snot on them. I keep walking down the street.
The snail on my back says "Weee!"

Change

I look back. I try to live without regret. I try to be a good person. But, I wan'st. I'm not. I'm not a good friend. I have been a shitty friend. I was a terrible person. And I don't really deserve to have friends. I'm not good enough. I always cling to "I'll be better" or "One day I'll be good enough." But I wasn't good enough then. And I'm not good enough now. And I don't know how to fix this. I don't know what it is I need to do, and I don't know if its worth it. That's the really terrible thing. I've been hurt so badly, and so has he. I need to change. I need to change. Why aren't I just good enough? Why don't I do the right thing? Will I ever be a good enough person. I don't think I am. I don't think I will be. I've messed up. And I don't think I can fix it.

Why.

There are some things I wish I didn't mess up. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please. Just let me go and become a nothing. I think I'm supposed to be a nobody. I think I'm supposed to be alone. Even though it's sad, I feel safer. I feel better hiding in a corner. I want to run away.

Metal and Magic.

There is a comparison made, between two men, one a teacher, and the other a baker. One creates and the other inspires. And the artist does both.

Another string of cobweb wraps on the inside of my throat, while pairs of four legs cling to the veins in my arms. Toxcidity engulfs my lungs, spasms of paralysis and vivacious struggle back and forth.

When I was young my brother and I found a small moth that could not fly well. In attempts to make it fly better, we decided to put it at the edge of a tunnel spider's web, because it should be able to fly if its life was in danger. We tenderly placed it on the edge of the trap, and as it begun to flap its wings to escape, the spider thrust its poison into it, and dragged it into the depths of its trap. We watched in horror, as we saw the last spams of the moth, and the web stop shaking. We both cried. We has just wanted to help.

What do I do when I see you dying inside? How can I help? How do I stop the poison in your life from killing you?

I just want to help. You saved my life. And you don't even know it. I just want to help.

Just heartbroken.

Just stop. Please. I beg you. All of you. I'm just heart broken. I'm just hurt. So please. I'm just hurt. Leave me alone. I just want to be able to live. I just want to perform. I just want to improvise. Please, stop hurting me. Don't judge me or figure me out. I'm just hurt. Be my friend and understand. I was in love, and that love saved my life. I don't want to lose my life. Please.
Understand. And just be a friend to an average heart broken girl, who misses improv. Please.

I'm angry.

Damn the stage. Stop its existence. Send its glory to hell. Take the lime-light victory and demean it. Rip the pride from the actor. What are you achieving on that stage that you can't win in your real life? What do you want so badly from that piece of wood that has a rug on top of it with a few colored splices of light on it? WHAT DO YOU WANT?! What is it that you want so badly from that stage!? I want freedom. I want confidence. I want that elusive, yet true, perfection. The unquestioned decisions, the leap into something that will not only catch me, but also send me towards the heavens. Blind my foresight, steal my predictions and give me Now. Send my one way street and blindness into a swooping fall, a turnpike rocketing of . . . Now. Better. Perfection. Fun. Oh Fun. Just Fun. I want you back. I want an escape. I want to spasm out of my head. Give me nothing but the terror of a freshly ripped heart convulsing in the desperation in my ears and flood my two brain with it. The peace of exhilaration. And yet, I am bound. Because my inability. My criticiality. The very things I so despairingly try and escape from are my chains. So Damn the Stage! Damn the lies of imagination. My fettered life will scream, and bite in spite towards this treatment. This cruel irony, the thing that makes Chevov laugh so. That by the things that make me a better person, I have been damned from the thing that I want to perfect me. Damn me. For I have not become enough to live.