Scabs and Scars

What is there to know but the scabs and scars that make up your useless existence? All I see registered on my neighbor’s face is the pain left over from her birth; all her drama and her sense of worthlessness left the bitter traces of survival on her skin. Life is worth fighting for if you truly give it a chance; do you think I give a shit if you feel that way? How can one person, or one group of people for that matter, make that decision for you? You have to want it – you have to need it.

I speak generalities in generosity to you for your own benefit. Let it seep into your heart, only for you to forget about it. That is what life it to you, isn’t it? Just to live, you take into account all others’ burdens and place them on your back, forever and always, never worrying about you and yours. Why is that? Why can’t you rise to your best? Why are you letting others holding you back?

It is a half-life that you lead, a half-life being something resembling a fiery drive, but lacking enough oxygen to carry itself through. All it can do is threaten to flicker off and die in obscurity. That will be your end if you don’t shape up. No one else but you is supposed to matter from the start anyway, so why expect anybody else to carry your weight?

Don’t be afraid to bleed for your dreams. Don’t be afraid to cry. Don’t be afraid to stand up and shout for your rights. Don’t be afraid to shout for your friends and lovers. Don’t be afraid to risk a little or risk it all if you believe in its benefits. But no matter what, don’t be afraid to go on. Never give up. That is when the building crumbles; that is when the heart stops in arrest.

There is no prince in glistening armor to save you. You have to be your own hero.