2016, writing

As If

In a body that is all edges
There walks a young girl
Wielding a sledgehammer in her own personal hall of mirrors
As if seven years bad luck
Could hardly be worse than this
Because cutting herself on the crystal shards
Seems preferable to piercing her skin on her own jutting collarbones
And the glares of people who could never understand.

In a brain full of answers
There sits a young boy
Who builds an elaborate machine
To solve the ultimate question
That of life and love and purpose
And whether any of it is worth anything after all
He places the last screw with care
And weeps
Because as if this this convoluted apparatus
Can fix its broken creator counterpart.

In a house full of condescension
There stands a young boy
Pumping iron and despairing that it will never be enough
As if bulging calves and pecs and biceps
Will convince his mother’s new favourite guy to stop emphasising what a pathetic, worthless, freak he is
And he knows his efforts are fruitless
And that what his mother’s new favourite guy says is true
But he keeps pumping iron anyway
As if dumbbells have the power to change anything
As if hurt can remedy hurt

As if being idolised is better than being loved;

As if pain is really the price of beauty;

As if the perfect person
In the perfect life
Is really very perfect at all.



I just got coerced into singing in the park.

A lot of people were there. I was very unprepared.

The first few bars I was switching octaves, because my breathing was nutso. I probably looked like a bit of a twit.

And you know what? I’m okay with that. I don’t expect zero preparation to give me perfection.

I’m making progress here, people.

2014, Uncategorized, writing

Being a Butterfly

“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately… I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life! To put to rout all that was not life… And not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived…”
Dead Poets Society, 1989

Live deliberately. Because when it is all said and done, what else is there to do but live in hope of avoiding the regret of never having lived at all?

Because no one is perfect, but everyone is rare, and beautiful, like a butterfly. And if we strive to perfection, to conformity, do we strip our wings of their colours so that we may fit in? Or do we paint on thick disguises so heavy they pull our hearts to our knees and we can’t get off the ground at all? And when you are a butterfly, with not more than a few days to live, is it worth it? Or are we wasting our time trying to be something we are not when people tell us, “This is the mold you are to fit to.” And so we bend ourselves until we break to fit the form we are shown and hide our heads thinking that maybe, if we keep our heads down, no one can throw rocks at us for being different.

I was asked a week ago, “Are you artistic or logical? Pick your path.” And after panicking for several minutes, wondering which path to take, wondering “Will I strip, or will I paint?”, I drew a path in the middle of my page and said “Screw it, I am going through the forest.” I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I want to be a butterfly with my own wings and yes, there are days when I conform. There are times when I strip myself of colour so that I may sink into the crowd and slip throught the cracks like the light I so desperately need. There are days when I paint on a happy face because I’m afraid my true colours aren’t the right ones. But even if I am only alive for a few days, even if my shoulders break from holding my head above water, I am a butterfly and I refuse to be a moth.

Please understand that your wings are beautiful.

Xx Loony