Sometimes I ponder of the reason I keep trying and trying and trying.
I try to appear as amiable and congenial as I can get, my lips curl as I smile a bogus smile.
Why can't we just come to terms with our true selves? That's a question I often ask myself, and find myself in dire need of an answer I can't seem to find.
Maybe because I'm too frightened to reveal what I really am, maybe I'm too concerned about what other people will see me as, there's a myriad of maybes and ifs to be asked and pondered of.
I have a musing session everyday dedicated to the sole possibility of finding an answer, and in the end, after all the thinking and assuming I say
"Why should I keep trying to peel my skin off, to reveal a layer that mortifies me, to reveal a layer that's not truly mine, to reveal a layer that in the very end, will be the destruction of me, why?"
YOU ARE READING
Rosētum
PoetryHere lie the roses, the roses that are the foundation of my rose garden, pluck them gingerly, here lie the roses that grew full of toxins and purity. Here lies my heart, My Rosetūm. All pictures in the story are mine!
