My passion has dissipated
And I know not where it went.
I am coated in cynicism,
Its chalky glaze pasted with rough hands over my soft heart.
I see beauty, but it does not breathe inspiration into the blackened cave of my mind.
Thoughts echo off its crystallized walls,
But they only ping on endlessly,
The feedback overtaking my reception.
My heart is caught in a net,
Rough ropes strung together by
and twisted taut by the refusal to face these embedded experiences.
They feel inextricably bound to who I am,
And who I was or could’ve been has disappeared.
The particles of my ideal image have disintegrated,
And been swept away by the tyrannous force of self-loathing.
My inward-turning has turned me inside out,
And I no longer recognize myself.
My stormy, serious eyes have cast a shadow over the carefree, radiant smile of my younger self.
The girl who used to climb trees
And play make-believe,
With elaborate stories and adventures.
I express this in a different way now,
But the visceral, vital connection feels lost.
Now there is “right and wrong,” “good and bad” –
At least says the little voice in my head,
Which grows bigger with every negative thought or image I impose upon myself.

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