my eyes are starting to open to the truth. I have changed so much in the past three weeks. my whole life has shed its skin over and over in so little time. the transformation, the renewal, has been extraordinary. every time I come out bald and pink I feel happier than I've ever been. at least that's how it seems. it seems like constant change and growth. but now in the final hour I fear it isn't. I fear I am still just the same as always: glorifying the flawed, basking in the imagined warmth of a sun that isn't there. it has become my new religion, my new cure-all, gods on a pedestal. I open my eyes to the truth that I am still worshipping imperfect beings. on my knees yearning for the promise of happiness; aching for the hum of bees and the musky odor of pinks.
things you can't find in other people. perhaps, things I simply cannot find at all.
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Poetrya personal prose poetry anthology updated hourly, monthly, or never at all
