A tired attempt at rhyme

I

I stand shaky in the middle of a forest of towering oak
but their brood leaves can't seem to protect me as stand naked in the burning sun
They reach down their branches to offer shelter but instead of submitting to protection - I run

I often want to turn around - but into the deep blue sea I jump instead
floating in the open water, nothing and everything can touch me - simtaneously- I am free, yet
completely immersed and all-trusting

I sometimes dream of returning to the direction from once I came - to its offerings of peace and
protection
but like a moth, I am drawn into the direction of the setting sun - and as it sinks, I chase it
as it shines, illuminating the hills that are stacked with houses in the distance
I'm not sure what I'd find there - if I were to return
so I decide not to chance it and stay forward bound - until I reach my way around



Snippets of imperfection

What would you do if I were honest - showed you my soul and welcomed you home?

They say your home is where your heart is - but my heart is shattered - it's pieces rest scattered,
all tattered and sown -
into loose fabric and dry soil which are fragments of someone else's ideas - of a perfection that is not my own

I don't know what to call you - where to put you, or how to behave
so I quietly shut the door in front of me, instead of facing these demons that reluctantly I've raised

I've tried to be rock solid , but I chip too easily at the core
don't juge me too harshly please - as I'm a broken doll with stained lips and a peculiar demeanor
and I find it difficult to penetrate the exterior - so I move quickly - so as not to bore

They say these beginnings are like magic, but they also say that magic fades
and too quickly I find myself jaded
not wanting to be held , by tired arms and a disapproving grace - I slide, I wax sorrowful distress - as I
rest my head on an unfamiliar pillow, in a bed that has never been made

judgmental bantering

Having spent much of the afternoon 'working' in a café, I have had a great deal of time to people watch - or shall I say; 'observe/silently criticize'.... yes, I think that is a more accurate description. Anyway, as I slowly sip my third cup of coffee and continue procrastinating, I am overwhelmed with a despicable sense of judgment. I am currently feeling a bit surrounded. Rail thin women donning repetitively thick layers of makeup and dressed to fashion-magazine-perfection are politely giggling all around me. I watch one pass by my table; her grande paper coffee cup appearing comically too heavy for her waif little arms to carry, her bouncing curls lightly springing up and down against her back as she walks out of the café on her twiggy little legs. I can't help but gawk at her – I am both intrigued and disgusted by her very existence. Intrigued by what she must do to become so freakishly thin and by how long it must take her to get ready in the morning, and in turn, disgusted by the hypotheses I have come up with about why she, and the rest of her kind are the way they are. In my current judgmental state, I assume the worst. The only reasonable explanation I have come up with for these perplexing creatures is that they must be mindless, soul-less drones, programmed by some estranged male fantasy gone haywire and let to run amok throughout practically all of the world's societies... They couldn't possibly be reflective, soul-searching, questioning individuals of any sort – but must have somehow seriously taken to heart everything they read and saw in the women's magazines they snuck past or were given by their mothers as teenagers. What has emerged out of the combination of these seemingly unobtainable representations of the ideal woman and the traditional roles placed upon many of the women of the world, feels, or at least looks a bit sub-human. Skinny, flawless perfection is what they know to be desirable, along with soft opinions and a gentle grip. Beauty will draw men, which will lead to marriage, which will ensure happiness and a worry-free existence... that is until the beauty fades and they are left with nothing but sagging breasts and a man who has found a younger version of their former selves. Are my assumptions too judgmental and cynical? Perhaps. But my post-feminist sense of individual elitism is getting the best of me today.

As I comfortably sit here with my messy bedhead, minimalist makeup and liberally individualistic perspectives, I go back and forth from feeling superior to these image-oriented women, to dabbling with disturbing feelings of feminine inadequacy. I tell myself I am 'superior' as I do not believe I have to spend hours primping in front of the mirror each morning before I allow myself to leave the house, I get to eat pastries and cheese and drink beer, swear like a sailor and spit, scratch and grunt with the boys (if I so desire). I also struggle with these embarrassing feelings of inadequacy however, as I question everything I believe to 'know' about what men want and find myself trapped in a web of hypocrisy all at the same time. Here I am, judging these women for their 'falseness' and skin deep desirability, caught up in the idea that it's all about the men, when really, I don't care WHAT these women dress like, think about or the rationale behind any of it. If a bottle of eyeliner a day and walking with six inch heals on cobblestones is what makes them honestly happy, then more power to them. Wearing my tingly Venom lip gloss and riding my bike in my red, scuffed wedges makes me joyously happy... so whatever works. Women let themselves get so caught up in judging one another, and for what? Like cocks or pitbulls shoved in a ring and cajoled to duke it out as the spectators look on, we play into it – leaving the ring either triumphantly or broken and torn apart with our head held in shame. We have done a very good job at allowing ourselves to be manipulated by the game and adapting our roles as we socially 'progress', pairing one another off against each other as we continuously circle, inevitably leading ourselves nowhere.

I suppose we cringe at the presence of these walking fashion magazine inserts because they seem to make us question our own desirability and feminine allure, despite knowing all-too-well that this is absolute nonsense. Are these women any happier or worse off then us 'normal' women? Probably not. However, we like to fantasize that they lead miserably empty lives as they painfully attempt to prance gracefully in and out of admirer's gazes, but they're probably not as alien as we might think. When it comes down to it, we most likely all have relatively the same fears and insecurities, just different ways of projecting and/or hiding them. One thing I do know, is that I wouldn't trade places...well, maybe for a night, but any more than that, I fear would leave me feeling more than just surrounded, but trapped and incredibly restricted. In the mean time, I suppose we will just have to go on rolling our eyes at their seemingly ridiculous Barbie realities and judging, rightly or wrongly, we can't help but to judge.