I wore the thorny crown—stapled to my flesh and pierced through the rims of my sanity; some called me crazy—others, a genius. I digressed the need for hopelessness and replaced my heart with a handful of stones. If running away meant discovering myself—in the end, then I'd do anything to have the one specialty. My soul begged for mercy, and my body cried in shame; the closer people got to me, the more I pushed them further out of reach—it wasn't my intention, but patience thinned, and time slipped between my fingers.
How could anyone want to be anywhere near a monster?
A friend looking for trouble through his purity?
As the years went by, the lonelier I seemed; temptation shook my core and emptied my will to live—naivety served its purpose when darkness invaded the light beaming within my imagination. I wandered into a fantasy full of conspiracies, narrowing the perception of greed; no one could be that fucking greedy!—or perhaps, lust out ruled love, becoming synonymous with the obsession: fame and fortune. I hated it, all of it! To outsiders, looking into the life of a celebrity was deemed the conclusion of getting everything you desire without consequence.
You wake up and think, "I want to be a millionaire and have all the fancy cars, chicks, and money."
What happens when you finally receive what you've asked?
Are you still happy?
Many would agree that you'd be the happiest person alive.
But what if someone made you die inside—just a little till you collapsed into a pile of regrets?
Would it be fun?
Being poor in memories and rich in materialism dished out silver platters with signatures signed in blood. The level of wealth (according to the world) measures through the various material possessions and class rankings—if you haven't met the requirements, you're a failure in their eyes. I didn't want to lose what I never had in the first place, nor gain something I already pieced together—taking back control prospered into my saving grace. At least, I think it did—possibly, my need for control ruined my chances of recovering from the traumatic experiences.
I wanted more—too much of the sun, patching my waxy wings, and continuously flying into disaster.
(Here is another unfinished draft from another project called: Dear Past Me.)