i stepped off of that train

and i felt my unease shift

to that of corrupt familiarity

relieved that the burden was off of me

for a little while

but still

i have bags under my eyes

i am still too prideful

why don’t i have all of the answers?

i should have them

i’m being pulled every which way

to sit down and be quiet

respect the elders

little pitchers have big ears

but i am also told to speak out

to help others, but to also be independent and fend for myself

to make others uncomfortable to bring about good change

but it can’t be too intense for their fragile hearts

because they can’t handle it

i wish i didn’t always

take control of things

i mess up the little things

which leads to bigger things

snowballing back into me

and spewing wet, freezing, mind-numbing snow

on my self-worth

i feel burdened

with the issues of my own world

that i created myself

complicated, complicated,

but something i need to tell myself anyways

my family may think differently than i do

but i have to stand by my values


what sort of a person would I be?

(picture: Crawford, Thomas. Mexican Girl Dying. 1848. Marble. Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City)



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